So, last December I had a birthday. I turned. Oh God I can’t say it. Ugh, okay… I turned thirty-five.
I had such a bad reaction to my birthday that everyone kept asking me if it was ‘the big one?’. Eh no! Now feck off. People always think I’m older. I can’t figure out if it’s because I have three kids or if having three kids has physically aged me. Two of them are boys so it’s probably the latter.
I was absolutely dreading this age. It’s a different box to tick on medical forms. I can no longer say ‘early thirties’. It’s middle-aged. I’m a middle-aged Irish mammy. My face has hair in places it definitely didn’t have hair before. My boobs have given up the ghost. I have to run about fifteen miles a day to lose a pound a week. I tut in loud pubs that I can’t hear myself think. I really enjoy watching Gardeners World and I don’t know what the number one song is because I only listen to Lyric FM. I have a crush on Marty Whelan.
There you go now, I said it all out loud and there’s no coming back; my name is Alison, I’m thirty-five, I drive a shitbox mammy-wagon with a rake of car seats and I fancy the sixty-year-old host of Winning Streak.
Everyone has an age in their head that they think they are. Mine is twenty-seven. I’ve no idea why, just that’s the age that’s frozen in my head. I honestly have an inner battle everytime someone asks me how old I am “I’m twent…early thirt…no wait I’m…oh fuc-“ and so on. I may or may not be having a mid-life crisis. It all started when I got my tragus pierced last year. It’s the part of your ear that’s kind of on your face. I always wanted it done, so I did it. Himself wondered if it was ‘age-appropriate’ for a woman in her early thirties (I was still in that medical tick-box then). I sulked for about two days but privately wondered too.
I don’t know what’s appropriate anymore. Do I have to cut my long hair into a sensible mammy-do? Can I wear ripped skinnies? Are skinnies still in? What length does my skirt have to be? Can I only wear trainers to the gym? Can you get your whole face waxed? Will I ever go bra-less again without looking like a National Geographic documentary? Where do we stand on the bikini waxing now? How does Snapchat work? Can I bribe a doorman to ask me for ID? Did that young fella just wink at me or have I turned into Samantha Jones?
I notice that men around my age have far more straightforward mid-life crises. As per usual it seems much less complicated to be a man of a certain age rather than a woman. Taking up the sports of their youths once again, purchasing ridiculously impractical cars that don’t fit three car seats in a row, developing an obsession with their thinning hair, finally parting with their bootcut jeans, upgrading the bird to a younger model or legging it completely. They may look like cliches but at least men know they’re not alone in the brotherhood. The women I ask about their age-appropriateness seem to be all over the place. Maybe they’re just all over the place because of their age.
I have an alarming new plan. The tattoo. I don’t think it’s part of the crisis but it could be. I used to despise them. I swore I’d never get one but in recent years I have reconsidered, as I so often do. I have thought about it long and hard. I know what I want to get; the last word of my favourite book. It has a lot of personal meaning to me and I think it would represent a lot of changes I’ve made in my life in recent years. I want to get it on my foot so that it’s discreet, I can hide it, or display it as I see fit.
My best friend has a lot of ink and I think she looks great but the what-ifs are killing me. What if I’m too old to get my first tat? What if it’s more painful than childbirth? What if I change my mind halfway-through like I did during labour? What if my skin gets wrinkly and it looks gross or like a crinkled-up piece of paper with a weird word on it? What if I have to spend my life explaining the word on my foot just like I have spent my life explaining how to pronounce my surname (it rhymes with cow).
I’m also afraid it will be a slippery slope. I never do anything by half. I’m that Type-A personality girl who has to throw herself full-throttle into absolutely everything she does, good or bad. Goes to the pub for one glass of wine, turns into Keith Richards. Takes up jogging, runs a marathon. Develops interest in genealogy, does up family tree back to 1750. You get the idea. There’s a strong chance that if I get this tat by next year I could look like Lady Gaga.
I need your moral support ladies. I want to hear from mamas who got inked later (ahem) in life. Do you regret it? Is it the best thing you ever did? Where did you get your tat? What did you get? How much did it hurt? To ink or not to ink, that is the question.
Be my moral compass. Help me to decide.
