Can you make me look less than 40 years old at all?

Sheesh. This. Is. So. Unglam.

To openly admit how old I really am. Because I’m usually very evasive about my age whenever I’m asked. Well…it’s a way of deluding myself really.

So how come I am so brave to announce my age officially here? I’m doing this only because turning 40 is supposedly a major milestone. WA. HA. HA. HA.

Why of course!

I’M BLOODY INTO MIDDLE AGE NOW! I’M OFFICIALLY AN AUNTIE NOW!

So how can I let something so significant slipped by without honouring it of some sort?

FAREWELL YOUTH. WELCOME OLD AGE!

While I had embraced my 30 years old with some vague sense of pride, I’m not too sure about this 40 years old. Because that number just doesn’t triggle any sense of jubilation for me. If anything at all, it’s bringing me a wee bit of apprehension.

Honestly, it’s a little scary. To think that I’m no longer young. To think that I’m nearing menopausal. To think that my body may start to malfunction soon.

For a start, my energy is certainly lower. My stamina is non-existence. My back is persistently in pain. Plus I even have long-sightedness!

It also doesn’t help that no matter how I look at my reflection, I think I’m looking my age. Look left, look right, look up, look down. Hard as I try to reverse the timeline, the wrinkles and spots are sparing me no mercy by the day. The double chin is showing up. The necklines are deepening. The tummy and arms are getting flabbier.

Laser treatments, IPL treatments, collagen intake and multivits are just aids that give me a temporary false sense of youthfulness. In reality, they still cannot make me any younger.

Which is why I have stopped taking pictures for a long time. I have also stopped celebrating birthdays many years ago. And you know what? I find surveys a pain in the ass cos they’re always asking for my age in the name of demographics.

All right, all right. I may sound sort of despondent but I’m not exactly depressed about my age. While I’m not jumping with joy, neither am I really miserable. Everyone has to pass a 40 years old, sooner or later and I’m just… ACCEPTING IT. *biting lower lips*

To think about it, at least I’ve had quite a good 40 years before and I can look forward to more happy years ahead with a family of my own. Yeah. This thought definitely beats the one on being a spinster for the rest of my life 10 years ago.

Hehe, but still…I don’t mind knowing more ways to look younger than my age.

I’m swarmed with so much work at the moment that I’ve had to turn away some assignments as a result.   Although I work part-time, someone said that I’m a full-time part-timer.  Ha!  Kind of  apt!

My working life is a little complicated and I suppose I can only say I’m very much on my own, and I’ve to manage my own time and assignments. This of course implies that I’m also very much on my own when it comes to my income.

Anyway, I’m running a workshop for a fairly large F&B company this Friday and this is the kind of job I consider as “spare cash.”  I coined this term over lunch with a friend last week. 

“Spare cash” not only because it’s extra work but “spare cash” cos I don’t get paid on time as I should be.  So instead of being paid in one month’s time, sometimes my payment gets delayed to two or slightly more…So with jobs like this, I’ll put it at my lowest priority and do it only when I have “spare time.”

But looks like I’ll be having a bit of “spare cash” for a while.  As long I get paid eventually, I guess “spare cash” is always better than “no cash.”

This is how my man is gearing up for the World Cup next month in his own mini way.

Me: What’s this?
He: A mini fridge.
Me: What for?
He: For my can drinks…
Me: Can’t you put them in our BIG fridge?
He: This one is portable…
Me: SO?????
He: World cup is next month!
Me: SO?????
He: Like that I can have my cold beer when I watch the football matches.
Me: Huh? But you can also have cold beers from our BIG fridge right?
He: Ya…but I’ll have to walk to the kitchen to get them!

Me: *SLAPS FOREHEAD AND ROLLS EYES*

I didn’t realise that Gavin actually understood the meaning of “ugly” until last week.  He had used the word to such precision that my jaw almost dropped to the floor.

Our family was having dinner at a restaurant and an odd looking young waiter about 18 years old with bleached short punk rock hairstyle was serving us the dishes.

After staring at the waiter for awhile and smiling somewhat coyly, Gavin said, “so ugly!”  He wasn’t loud, but it was definitely audible.  I was dead sure the waiter who was just standing next to me heard it as he glanced up at Gavin.  Of course he didn’t do anything but just left us to enjoy our food. 

As soon as he stepped away, I quickly affirmed with my maid about what I’ve heard and we broke out laughing.  It was then that his dad and grandparents realised what the cheeky boy has just said. 

Although it was uttered innocuously, some feelings were probably hurt as the ugly waiter never returned to serve us again that evening.