November 24, 2013
Jennifer Lowcarb, (AKA J-Low) is a 40 something fitness fanatic from Fremantle, Western Australia. Jennifer is a Mother of four, wife of one and a busy career woman. Jen loves spending time chatting to and caring about her clients, however, because she works as a Funeral Director the majority of them are dead.
Jen has a lot to say when someone is actually listening. Turns out, you’re that someone.
I approached the end of my 30’s with trepidation and the giant reality slap that my youth was finally trailing off behind me. Like the bright tail lights of a comet, it was burning out, taking with it the spark that had powered my very being for 39 years and sinking me into the darkness of ‘old ladydom’. My youth was dying. I was turning 40. I was turning old. I was turning wrinkles and hip replacements. I was turning ‘scent of lavender’ and blue rinse hair. I did what any 39yo in denial would do and started to panic.
No more short dresses and long tresses. No more swanning about the place looking young and vibrant. This was 40. Time for a sensible hair cut and, dare I say it, trousers. Possibly slacks. I pondered briefly the merits of knitting and whether I could knit myself a hat for lawn bowls which I would surely have to take up now that I was turning 40. It was time to pack away the fun and start getting on with the job of getting old.
The problem was, I didn’t want to. There was something about hitting 40 that made me realise I had taken my youth for granted, and that senior citizen living just wasn’t for me. That and the fact I find it incredibly hard to be sensible for more than a few moments, and apparently when you’re 40 you have to be sensible quite a lot of the time. I just wasn’t ready to swap my Bonds hipster undies in ‘Fire Engine Red’ for beige briefs that discretely hide a Tena Lady adult nappy, no matter how comfortable they look on the TV commercial. I liked my skinny jeans, my strappy sandals and my short skirts. I wasn’t ready for trousers and slacks with matching blouse and a fetching rose shaped pendant. I wanted to be young. I wanted to look young. I wanted to stay young.
So I did what any non sensible 40 year old would do and started searching the internet for the elixir of youth, certain I would find it, buy it, swallow it, and be forever bask in my own youthful glow. I would scoff at Father Time and his wrinkle making ways. “IN YOUR FACE, OLD MAN!”, I would shout with the wisdom and courage I usually only find in the bottom of a bottle of Sauv Blanc. I have shouted these words before, but it was at a store Santa who said he couldn’t bring me Ryan Gosling for Christmas because Ryan Gosling didn’t really love me. Pffft! What would he know?!
So, with a freshly opened bottle of Sauvy B, a Mars bar, a Cherry Ripe and half a left over KitKat finger I found in the glove box of my car , I began my search. I was certain the information superhighway would yield the answer to my question and bring my quest for eternal youth to a swift end. After all, this was wasting good dancing time and I had a BBQ to go to.
I searched, high and low. Key words a plenty, (“How to keep my youth? How do I stay young? How to look 20 at age 40? Wrinkly women and the men who love them! How do I make Ryan Gosling love me?”), and surprisingly, I found the answer (The elixir of youth part, not the Ryan Gosling part. I’m still searching for that).
I had done it. The impossible. I found the elixir of youth! There it was, right in front of me. The only problem now was, I didn’t like what I saw. I did not like it at all.
As denial ate away at my soul I tried to pretend I hadn’t seen it. But what is seen can never be unseen. In the distance I heard the pitiful wailings of what sounded like a woman whose soul was being tortured by ancient wolves, tearing her into little bitty pieces whilst laughing manically at her despair. As I came too I found myself lying on the floor in the foetal position, hugging my knees and rocking slowly. I may possibly have been speaking in tongues. It dawned on me that the wailing was coming from me. I started sucking my thumb, only taking it out to have a few quick bites of my Mars Bar and to wash it down with half the bottle of my Sauv B, not stopping to bother with a glass. There was no turning back now. The internet in all its cruelty had shown me the true secret of prolonged youth and if I wanted it I was going to have to do it. There was no other way.
I was going to have to....exercise.
For one brief and blissful moment I thought I had read I would only need an ‘exorcism’ and was pleased. But no, I would need to exercise. And I was horrified.
Next week Jen visits her long suffering GP for a health check, and learns that one serving of grapes does not equal one glass of wine.
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