In just a few, short weeks, I will be another year older. And I’ve decided that this year, I will officially stop ageing.
In the main, I’m actually not that bothered about people knowing how old I am. Since my daughter was old enough to speak, her opening conversational gambit with new people was always, “Do you know how old my mum is?” At which point, they would start to cough and shuffle, in anticipation of some embarrassing denouement. Inevitably, my age would be disclosed and it would get worse. “How old?” You could see them thinking. “Blimey, I’d have said another ten on top of that”.
So, this year, I’m going to pick an age and just stick to it.
My big problem, is of course, that I’m whilst I think I’m still only 21, my face has a comfortable, lived in look that clearly denies this. Hmmmm. What to pick? And can the mighty powers of Estee Lauder‘s product development function make it credible? Having said that, I do have access to industrial strength Botox, every three months, assuming that I can persuade my neurologist to inject a few precious drops into my forehead. [Editor’s note: No way. Your neck needs all it can get!].
And the winner is? 39.
I’ll test it out and see what happens.