My mum is sixty-five and looks fifty. Her mother is ninety-six and looks eighty. The maternal genes have drunk from the fountain of youth. When I was ten kilos lighter, friends of my mother would mistake me for her. Although it did cross my mind that I should be disturbed that I was mistaken for a sixty year old, I took comfort in the thought that I would still look that way when I was approaching seventy.
It was not to be. My sister, who won't mind me telling you celebrated her fortieth a while ago, has never dyed her hair. Ever. As far as I know, she doesn't have to book extra time for a waxing session. She can stick to a diet, (probably due to our early training - my mum was an Eighties convert to the F-Plan diet - we were the only pre-pubescent kids I knew who ate bean sprouts). Sis is stacked with the maternal genes.
It appears that the only thing I inherited from my mother is the family gene for male pattern baldness, which translates in females to polycystic ovaries. Super. Everything else is from my dad's side. The under active thyroid gland. The early twenties acne. The odd migraine here and there. Oh, and the Eyore-isms and general propensity to look on the dark side of life.
When I'm recruiting at work, I'm now able to look at CVs (well, the ones of those people who ignore the latest guidelines against including age. They're just showing off) and remember, quite easily, what I was doing the year of the candidate's birth. As an adult. I was already working when these bloody people were born.
How did that happen? One minute I'm making a total arse of myself over some teenage boy, the next I'm considering the options of waxing or bleaching.
In the old days, rather than take a handbag clubbing, I'd stuff my money and lipstick in a fag packet and tuck it in to the top of one of my stockings. These days I could probably fit a whole duty-free box of 200 Marlboro Lights under one boob.
Which reminds me of another thing. Stockings. I tried some on a few weeks ago, in a vain attempt to bring some sexiness back to my day. One glance in the mirror at the garter belt biting into my stomach showed me that I was trussed up like a joint of beef. The offending article was quickly removed and I vowed never to look at myself naked again with my contact lenses in.
I suppose that's a positive side to growing old. My eyesight will get so bad, I won't be able to see the moustache, the boobs skimming the floor or the three inch beard. Ignorance is bliss.
P.S. I just had to come and edit this quickly. As I saved the post, Google helpfully popped up an advert for permanent hair removal.