Balls and Botox

At work and struggling to be productive today, I’m just not in the zone. Got back early Monday morning from the most amazing weekend in New York, where B took me (spoilt much?) to celebrate my 40th. Spent Monday first sleeping and then trying not to sleep so we’d be able to turn our body clocks back to normal, and yesterday I went to work full of energy and was so efficient I got through almost everything my bosses have left for me to do this week (they’re away the whole week). Today, however, I just can’t seem to get going so instead I’ve busied myself with planning for B’s birthday.

Yep, the Sexy One turns 50 in April and I think he’s freaking out a little. He just seems to take that liiiiiiittle bit too much delight in telling anyone willing to listen (and anyone unwilling to listen too, for that matter) that we are now both in our 40s. That’s fine, sweetie, but there’s nothing you can do – IT’S HAPPENING, BABE. You’d never think it though, coz this amazing partner of mine is a sexy beast with to die for looks and could easily pass for ten years younger. He could run circles around men in their 30s with his long, lean and muscular physique.

*** Must stop visualising B naked as being turned on whilst at work seems very, very wrong. ***

I could most certainly not pass for ten years younger, which pisses me off as we therefore look of similar age and people don’t understand it’s a joke when B points out about us both in our 40s thing. For that reason I make sure I laugh as loudly as I can each time he says it. And he says it a lot. I think it was the first thing he realised upon waking up Saturday morning, but at least he’s focusing on our ages starting with the same digit as opposed to how he now has a fiance in her 40s, which has a slightly off-putting ring to it.

And, so, we made New York ours. I’d been there several times before and so had B, so it was magical to experience it in a new way altogether. We ate truckers’ breakfasts, glorious New York strips and downed countless drinks in bars of varying respectability. We walked the High Line, watched ice hockey at Madison Square Garden, an eternity ring from a jewellers called Anna made its way onto my finger somehow (again – spoilt much?!) and B got to put his arm around several ladies – some with more balls than others, especially his new friend who goes by the name of ‘All Beef Patty’, whose huge multicoloured wig added at least six inches to “her” existing 6’6 frame.

So yes, finally 40! I don’t know why I’m not freaking out about this like most people seem to, but I just know it’ll be my best decade yet. 30 didn’t bother me either. Strangely, the only time I can recall ever feeling funny about age was when I turned 20. For fuck’s sake – 20!! I just remember feeling ever so slightly wistful about no longer being a teenager. Perhaps I have welcomed both 30 and 40 because I feel ageing has always been a good thing due to being a bit baby faced – I looked about 14 until I was 28 or so, so a bit of living etched on to me has only been a good thing.

Or I’m eyeball deep in denial and will be hit with a mid-life crisis of tsunami proportions soon, but then there’s always Botox so I’ll roll with the punches – who needs facial expressions anyway?




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