Middle-age blues

I can't deny it anymore.

As of tomorrow, I will be past middle aged.

That's right, if you take the average life span for females in Australia (84) and divide it by 2, you get 42. Tomorrow, I will be 43. The downhill run.

I don't feel middle aged. Middle aged people wear cardigans, and talk about insurance, or real estate, or how things were so much better/cheaper/safer/simpler when they were young.

(Come to think of it, I really do need income protection insurance, and we could do with buying a house with more backyard. Gees life was so much simpler when I was young. I might even have the odd cardigan in the closet.)

It's also been many years since I knew (or cared) about the top ten charts (is there such a thing in the era of iTunes?) and I would rather an early night with a good red and a good book than hitting the latest nightclub.

Fuck, maybe I am middle aged?

But that means I am running out of time to live the dream. The 20-year old me would have been appalled at what's become of her. A house in the 'burbs, a husband, two kids, a job in the public sector.

Where's the rich Spanish lover? The homes around the world (in a quest to never experience Winter. I hate Winter)? The fame of being Australia's most trusted and respected foreign correspondent? The Jimmy Choos????

Still, life's not too bad. I have a husband who loves me and is a great dad, two kids who keep me amused and tear my heart out (often both at the same time), my health, a steady job with good pay and benefits, caring, thoughful friends who are always there for me.

And it could be worse. I could live in Swaziland. With an average female life expectancy of 39, I would be positively ancient.