Lordy Lordy I’m not 40

I’m in for the big birthday this year and am praying hard that nobody thinks it’s funny to do a Lordy Lordy in the ‘Derry Journal’ despite immensely enjoying laughing at everyone else’s embarrassing baby pics.

I’m in for the big birthday this year and am praying hard that nobody thinks it’s funny to do a Lordy Lordy in the Derry Journal despite immensely enjoying laughing at everyone else’s embarrassing baby pics.

I genuinely have no idea how this is happening and despite obviously having lived for 40 years, I’m still of the belief that I’m at the very, very most, all of 27. Late twenties good, early 40s bad. Smiths good, all other pseudo Indie bands bad. Things were better in the early 90s.

I had been pushing it all to the back of my mind until a recent medical appointment when the nurse announced, while confirming my date of birth, that I was indeed in for said for “big birthday” this year. And when I say pushing it to the back of my mind what I really mean is breaking into a cold sweat and hovering on the verge of a panic attack every time one of my so-called friends reminds me that we will be entering old age in a succession of birthdays from August onwards this year.

The so-called friends all say that they don’t mind a bit, age is just a number and every other cliché and platitude you could shake a stick it. The one with no kids wants to go to Morocco for a week. Truth be told Buncrana for the weekend is as much as my pocket and time away from the kids will allow. Miss Marrakesh is also the one who is still a size ten, has little grey hair and has a copy of Vogue on her never used coffee table as well as bona fide coffee table books.

Stil, the one with the most kids is taking it well too. She wants a big party, a weekend in Berlin and thinks its great to be turning the 40 corner. And if reminders from members of the medical profession and friends aren’t bad enough I have a seven-year-old daughter who thinks it’s great craic to tell everybody that mammy is 39 while she’s rummaging through my hair for greys and checking my neck for wrinkles to see if I’m catching up with her granny in the crinkly skin stakes.

This week I emailed a well-known fitness trainer for info on getting in shape before the big day. Expecting a reply of “age is just a number”, her email instead told me that 40 is indeed a “wow” milestone and that she could only help me to get fit (and by that I really mean thin) for November if I was prepared to fully commit to the process. I’m still thinking. And 40 I’m treating you the same way, no commitments yet. I’m staying 39 for as long as the lie will stand up.