I laugh in the face of normal
It occurred to me today, as I was writing, that it was a truly wonderful time to be a middle aged, single woman. The best time in history. If I’d been my mother, apart from having to iron all socks, towels and knickers, because it was clearly the law back then, I’d have resigned myself to middle age and singledom. If I’d been my gran, (apart from the fact that my ex would probably have been mercifully dead, because they often were much earlier back then) I’d have been forced to stick to a life of misery and blue rinsed afros until I could scrape enough of the ration money together for cyanide. If I’d been any other generation of women, I’d have had to put up and shut up, or face the loony bin.
Which is why I feel such an irepressible urge to share my stories. I’m blessed with such a lack of bitterness I would send someone round to his house everyday to shakes his hand and sing the top ten “Thank you” songs if I could afford it. Hell, I’d pay them to strip whilst they were doing it. If I ever make any money, that’s the first frivolous thing I’ll spend it on.
I’d never have got to drink so much or be so silly with my real friends – nor would I have got to know who these people were. I’d never have got to learn so much about waxing. I’d never have had a girly exciting holiday in my forties and ended up on a coach full of teenagers, watching them be sick whilst I held down my drink. I’d never, ever have got to write this down and I may never have remembered who I was.
So when someone kicks you in your metaphorical balls, salute them. They may just have saved your life.