Ok so forty dum de dum is middle aged but am I really ready to label myself as that ? NO is the resounding answer to that. I admit I can’t wear killer heels for as long as used to and yes I have more wrinkles than ever before, I don’t just have bags under my eyes I have suitcases now and my joints complain a heck of lot these days. My memory is not what it used to be and I go into a different room then wonder what the heck I went in there for…………… hmm where was I ? Oh yes middle age, it’s not that I mind getting older but I mind all that it brings, I object to teenagers giving me odd looks if I am out and about and my tattoos are showing. They look at me as if to say ‘what the heck is she thinking of ‘ all I can say is I hope they get given the same looks for expressing themselves in a particular way when they are my age. I love having weird hair colour but my son has put paid to that ( well him and all the chemicals my body has had pumped into it ), he wants me to be a ‘Normal’ Mom. But I don’t feel like a normal Mom I feel like me so why should I not look like me ? I don’t want to be an embarrassment to him but equally he should be used to me by now and he could be a bit more tolerant of how others want to be. I certainly would never tell him I wish he was a bit more individual, he has his own style and yes it does err on the conservative for me but that is his choice. He prefers wearing a shirt rather than T shirts and I applaud that as he does look lovely in shirt but I am biased.
I guess what I am waffling on about is I am not ready to roll over and succumb to hair rollers, support hose and meal on wheels just yet . This old girl is not going to go quietly Old Age is gonna have to drag me kick and screaming into my dotage.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on that sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Dylan Thomas
Love
Momma Tea
