This year I turned both 29 and into my mother.
My mother, it should be noted, is a lovely woman. However, she is 64 years old and I am clutching desperately onto the edge of my twenties with my gross, haggy hands. Of late, I’m on such a downward senior citizen spiral that I’m heading straight into the arms of a crocheted afghan blanket and Sunday night ABC programming.
The problem is, the senior moments start so small that at first you don’t even recognise them. Let’s take, for example, the night of my 29th birthday dinner. After much negotiation, I managed to round up a bunch of people who were willing to be seen in public with a living corpse. After entering the chosen birthday venue, with my face and youth dragging behind me, I was presented with many delightful birthday presents. Now, I’m not a robot – I love me some presents. In my younger years, I used to tear into wrapping paper with the kind of ferociousness I imagine Oprah exhibits upon spotting a bread roll after one of her preachy no-carb diets.