A wretched soul

This morning I realised that it is very helpful to my fellow humans to list my grievances and post a selfie on the worldwide web. Online Whinge Day will surely change the world for the better, and as I am perfect, I’ve got a long list of complaints about human behaviour:

 

When suffering loved ones post, ‘remembering dear Fringle and her contribution to our lives, gone too soon,’ idiots ask of the dear departed’s family, ‘Oh, what happened to Fringle, I don’t know.’ Hello smartphone saviour, there’s a thing called Google, you can look it up. Also on Facebook there’s a wall where you can actually scroll down and look through past events, and spare the grieving person the effort of retelling the story because of your laziness. Sigh
When businesses have ‘heroes’ listed on their website, and what follows is a list of the person’s professional achievements. Client service in real estate is not heroic, saving lives is. Der 

 

The use of the word culture (the arts and other manifestations of human intellectual achievement regarded collectively) to describe what is merely a money making scheme, not an inspiring use of a person’s time

 

Online parenting experts, who when looking at a photo of a messy teen’s bedroom or reading about a parenting fail on Farcebook, quickly type advice such as, Teach your teen to clean up, it’s good for them, or gems like, I think you should set a good example for your child. Really? I thought parents were supposed to let kids run riot and drink to excess. Thank you Captain Obvious

Sometimes I wonder if the whole world isn’t an idiot asylum for the castaways of happier planets – Malheureuse

 

 


Mature

This year I’m starting to feel older. There are signs. Plastic surgeons are now following me on Instagram, looking for business. One day I went to work wearing no make up and three people asked me if I was unwell. My youngest child has also been helpful while looking at family photo albums.

“Look at that photo mummy, you have no crinkles.” Thanks for the reminder about my ageing face honey, I think you caused some of those crinkles.

One night a few months ago she was ill, and I held her over the bath to catch her vomit. When she stopped I swung around to wipe her feverish head and a strange woman stared at me from the mirror; a grumpy, frowning, middle-aged harridan holding a sickly-looking kid. Oh God, it was me. I’m sure I’m still 15 years old checking for pimples, how did the old bag take over my body? Do I exorcise her with Botox and skin peels? Some days I long to be young and dumb and pretty.

 

My lack of fashion sense doesn’t help. Mostly I am a slovenly mother, which is unfashionable in the current air brushed social media perfection climate. My winter look has been Patty and Selma flannelette pyjamas, stained t-shirts and no bra. I should make more effort with my appearance, my look is either dragged through a bush backwards hair or trying to put on as much make up as a drag queen. But I don’t want to be 49 years old and still dressing to impress a male, which is strange for a woman whose shelves are filled with feminist literature.

 

I do hope I’ll grow wisdom by the time I’m 50, because I am at an age where it is easy not to give a rats any more. My skin is dry and my arse is sliding down the back of my thighs. I wish I had the energy to care. I may be stating the obvious for those of you in your 50s and 60s but losing our youthful shimmer is challenging.

 

Some mornings my youngest stares at me then looks in the mirror.

“I want hair like mummy monster,” she says. I look at her, at my mangy head in the mirror, then at her again. Is she taking the piss? Having children is exhausting but my kids have also made me a better person. Youngest has improved my wardrobe. We went into a op shop last week and she said, “This is a nice cougar dress for you mummy.”

Simply Irresistible – Robert Palmer