Netflix and Chills

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"I got chiiills, they're multiplyin'....."

Don't worry, I'm not about to launch into a rousing rendition of Better Shape Up from Grease - not least because with a slight hint of a 'tache and pasty un-made-up face I look more like Danny than Sandy right now. No, I've got chills because I'm sick.

Sick Adjective. 

1. to feel ill, or not well. 
2. A secondary word for awesome. 
3. Gross, disgusting. 
4. Tired, pissed off. 
5. Horny.

1. I feel very sick, I think I might vomit. 
2. Dude, that song is so sick! 
3. That was sick when he had sex with that gorrilla. 
4. I am sick of your attitude. 
5. Who wants to get sick with me?

Since we live in a ridiculous time when "sick" can now mean both violently ill and also amazingly cool, allow me to clarify: I'm sick in the old-fashioned sense. Did you really think a forty-something woman would be using the word in the new trendy slang way? Nah. That would not be "sick"...that would be embarrassing.

Sam...or Slimer?

So I'm sitting in my bed, bolstered by pillows and cushions to keep me bolt upright, since whenever I tilt even a few degrees to one side I leak snot like some kind of Ghostbusters blobby thing oozing ectoplasm, when it suddenly occurs to me: I've not been ill for ages. Sure, I've had the odd hangover, but that's entirely self-inflicted and doesn't exactly classify as illness; I mean, anyone who downs wine, jäger bombs and cocktails over the course of a lively evening hardly expects (or deserves) to wake up feeling full of beans, right?

No, what just struck me was how rarely I feel as rubbish as I do now, which is as an extra from Thriller might do (i.e freshly dug up) and ergo, how lucky I am. I can't remember the last time I had a day off sick from work. Certainly not in the last two years (and I'm not about to start now: no-one likes a Sicknote). Health is something we all simply take for granted...until it's not there.

                    

The Thriller vid: still worth a watch, 35yrs(!) later

Just as we don't really appreciate our parents when we're kids - the endless dinners prepped, expensive trainers, school trips, dad being our personal taxi service, ferrying us about (mine still does sometimes - cheers Pops) - we also don't always appreciate feeling "normal"...until we don't. It's just taken as a given that we feel fine, thus allowing plenty of time to focus on the big stuff - like the size of Kim K's ass, Queen Bey's baby news, or our mutual loathing of Trump.

So this post contains no big revelation; it's just a simple expression of gratitude for my health. I'm not particularly religious, so I'm not quite sure who I'm addressing it to - not God, exactly. The Universe?

It's the same when it comes to discussing the ageing process. Of course I'd love to be gazelle-like (or maybe Gisele-like?) forever - springing about all plumped and pumped with the vigour of youth - but getting older is actually something to be proud of. I spend my days peddling "anti-ageing" products in my job as a beauty boutique manager - it's big business - but why are we so ashamed of getting older? Yes, I'd rather look like Bambi than a taxidermist's mishap, but a lived-in face shows character and experience. It says: "Oh I could tell you a story or two....." delivered with a sly, crinkly-eyed wink ;-)

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I reckon we need to change our attitudes towards ageing. I mean, we made it this far - so many don't. The alternative to getting old...is not getting old at all. I know plenty of amazing people whose lives were cruelly snatched like a rug from beneath their feet long before their time - some in their twenties and thirties or even younger.

Of course I bemoan the crow's feet when I look in the mirror as much as the next person, but the overwhelming feeling is gratitude that I'm actually still here. I've put my body through a lot over the years, but still it soldiers on and serves me well (even if it is starting to creak and click a bit in protest).

So although from the outside it might look like a sorry scene in my bedroom this Sunday afternoon: me slumped in bed during the day clad in fox-print peejays (well Andy did say to "buy yourself something foxy") accessorised with a big red bulbous hooter, sore from being blown umpteen times - I'm actually feeling decidedly upbeat.

Feeling bleugh: Netflix and a chill

I might on the surface of things be feeling fifty shades of meh; the scene more "Netflix and chills" than chill, but underneath the mountains of Kleenex and trashy magazines is an ashen-faced 40-something who's actually bloody grateful.
Grateful that this is just a cold.
Grateful that in a few days I'll be right as rain.
Grateful that by next weekend I'll be back to drinking wine and dancing with friends and taking my health for granted all over again....

About last weekend...clubbing with the gorgeous JenKat

But in the meantime, I'm just chillin'.

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:
www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com

www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com

www.mummymission.blogspot.com

www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76

Facebook: Samantha Jane Walsh

Instagram: wanderingblonde76

I said Forty not Faulty

A year ago, when the calendar flipped round to March for the thirty-ninth time in my life, I started thinking of myself as forty to give myself a year to get used to the idea. Whenever people asked how old I was I'd say I was forty, with increasing confidence and defiance as the year wore on and the D-Day b-day approached.

It didn't work. Despite being in sunny Spain on 31st March this year, I awoke on the morn of my fortieth birthday feeling a tad....dare I say it.....OLD.

It was as if the Grim Reaper had stood at the foot of my bed in the night, chuckling with glee as he decided not to actually take me, not yet, but just to wave his scythe around a bit and carve a few new deep creases around my eyes.

On that momentous day I woke with a jolt, stumbled bleary-eyed to the mirror and inspected my obviously 40-year-old face in the bright early-morning Spanish sunlight. Ouch! Not only did I have those new 'laughter lines' (I don't know about you, but I don't see anything remotely funny here), but I also had 'pillow face' whereby the once-bouncy cheeks now take a while to return to their smooth state after a restless night's sleep (did I mention that insomnia kicks in around this age?). Oh, and my chest was looking a tad crepey too.

"What the....?" I said aloud to my concerned reflection, jumping in the shower in a vain attempt to steam away some of the creases. Was it my imagination, or did my make-up seem to be making me look older today, the peach-toned Polyfiller gathering like cement in the nasolabial folds despite taking extra care when applying it.

My year of pre-forty pep-talking had failed.

Of course, I don't feel forty. I don't think anyone really feels their age. This is why, working in the beauty industry as I do, I'm confronted on a daily basis by crinkly fifty-year-olds excitedly asking me the question every skincare consultant dreads:

"How old do you think I am?"

Instinctively, I take off ten years, add another couple, take one off again then tentatively say:

"Errrrrrrm. Fortyyyyy...........three?"

The customer beams with pride as she loudly announces "I'm fifty-two."

Personally, I'd have pitched her at around the fifty-five mark, but I allow her the glory, acknowledging the boost it provides when someone, particularly another woman, chucks another credit in your age-o-meter.

Although we all recognise the tell-tale signs whilst pondering our reflections: the lines, the thinning hair, the sparse brows - we tend to skim over these giveaways of our advancing years because on the inside we are still eighteen years old, nervously chewing our nails as we await our A-level results or dancing without a care in the world on a podium in Ibiza.

The outer shell may be changing more quickly than I'd like, but deep down I'm still the risk-taking, fun-loving girl I always was: a self-conscious seething mass of emotions - albeit now cunningly concealed with a bolshie dose of bravado.

Naturally, age and experience has brought wisdom, cynicism and a dry, wry sense of humour, but underneath I'm still the lanky schoolgirl wondering if anyone will ask me to the prom. I regularly give myself the third degree, harshly asking myself if I'm doing the right thing/am I a good boss/a lousy friend? - burning questions that reverberate around my monkey mind at 3am on a wet weekday morning. By and large though, us grown-up gals know who we are and what we want, and we aren't afraid to go out and get it.

It's a well-known fact that women of a certain age wear a cloak of invisibility. As a twenty-year-old, wolf whistles and cheeky car horn toots are a regular annoyance, tolerated with rolling eyes. At forty, we're almost grateful to receive them. "Still got it!" we say to ourselves, with a smile and a flick of the hair.

As a six foot blonde, admiring glances haven't ceased altogether (not yet!) but I occasionally catch a flicker of disappointment when a randy young lad realises upon closer inspection that I'm probably the same age as his mother.

Some women describe a sense of relief at their new-found invisibility, no longer feeling the need to constantly fiddle with their appearance. Not me! I want to be glamorous until the bitter end, groomed to perfection until I draw my last weak breath from a shakily-applied lipsticked mouth. Even if the teeth are not all my own.

Some say age is nothing but a number, merely a state of mind. I say let's get in a state, then we won't mind. Being a sozzled old soak may not be a good look, but boy does a glass of Sauvignon take the edge off a tough day...and when I gawp goggled-eyed into the mirror in the Ladies of the swanky rooftop bar, it miraculously takes the edge off the wrinkles too. Cheers to champers! I'll be quite happy to grow old disgracefully, Patsy from Ab Fab style.

Having a younger boyfriend certainly helps and fear ye not single girls! There are no shortage of fit fellas seeking out a sexy middle-aged cougar. I'm not ready for a guy who likes to lounge in front of the telly with his pipe, slippers and a faithful beagle at his feet. No siree! Give me a hot young action man any day of the week.

A close-knit group of mates is also essential - many of whom I've been bosom buddies with since we started secondary school. Somehow they all still speak to me, which is miraculous in itself, since I'm not exactly known for my tact and reticence...

Throw in owning a modest home, a job I enjoy and a handful of family members and that's all the ingredients I need to swerve a crisis. (And besides, I already had a mid-life meltdown a few years ago).

When I say you feel the same inside at 40 as 20, that's not strictly true. Try spending an evening with a load of twenty-year-olds. You'll soon change your mind. Although the changes may be subtle and you'll always retain some of your youthful ways, at 40 you're a fierce and fiery lioness not merely a pretty kitten. Mess with us at your peril!

In my teens I was on a journey of self-discovery, my twenties were wild partying mixed with occasional property purchasing. The thirties were about marriage followed by a miserable quest for motherhood before tearing everything up and starting my life all over again.

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Now, with a fresh new decade stretching ahead of me like an open road, I'm ready to pack my bags, travel as far and wide as my bank balance and holiday entitlement will allow, and embrace the future with gratitude. With the awareness that I've passed the halfway mark in my life (probably quite a while ago, let's be honest), every day is a blessing and I intend to grab every opportunity and live every day as if it were my last. Because let's face it, it soon will be.

Of course, we could vow to give up all the naughty-but-fun stuff, but you won't necessarily live longer, it'll just feel like it.

So buy the heels, drink the bubbles, spluge the savings...it's time to get naughty at forty, ladies!

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:
www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76
Facebook: Samantha Jane Walsh
Instagram: wanderingblonde76