Perched on my stool at Tokyo in Paddington last Thursday evening for a spot of solo dining (where better than a highly over priced sushi train) I looked around me at all the spritely 20 something’s in their deconstructed fashion and their devil may care vibe and thought, holy hell…that was me at this very locale 10 years ago.
It was indeed 10 years ago that I started working at M.A.C in Paddington and damn I was cute. Pity I didn’t know it. Shit, maybe I’m cute now & will look back with regret when I’m 47 wishing that I appreciated my cuteness. Point is that 10 years have whooshed by. It was like yesterday that I would saunter into M.A.C in various states but reliably late, haphazardly applying my makeup in the backroom before arrival of customers, my head always full of plans & schemes to numb the reality of pushing lipstick all day. And in all that time between then and now, I still haven’t gotten around to producing an heir to the throne. While everyone else around me is forming family clans, what the hell have I been doing with this last decade? Sure, I managed to snag a husband before I became totally unmanageable but that was so 7yrs ago. What else? Pre hub there was partying, the arranging of partying (I arranged some showstoppers), the outfits to wear whilst partying, interviewing potential husbands, my wedding, moving, travelling Europe, some fabulous weekenders, wining, dining, drinking $18 cocktails at pretentious bars, buying clothes & hiding them from hub (“don’t be ridiculous; I’ve had this for ages”), acquiring the two fluffy children and making their life incredible…busy, busy.
Have I left my run too late? I mean the way I’m going I’ll be 50 with an unruly tween on my hands. And probably not Madonna 50. The thought of going through the sweaty, hot flushes of menopause while trying to reason with a crazy, hormone fuelled teenager at the peak of puberty left me unable to finish my sashimi. What the hell has happened to all this time? One minute I’m with my friends, swinging my switch around on a dance floor in the Horden and in a blink of an eye, I will be 40. And not Jennifer Anniston 40. Maybe I just should have bitten the bullet & squeezed one out years ago instead of partying, drinking champagne by the galleon, buying dresses and arranging getaways. But what about if I want to do that till I’m 80? The familiar feeling of baby related panic rises… I’m not ready…stop the clock!
