Walking down the aisle at Woolies the other day, scanning the magazines, my eyes landed on an article being advertised “HOW TO GET A JOB AT 40, FOLLOW THESE SIMPLE STEPS!”
I turn 40 in December. *gasp*
So I’m going to call upon my many many MANY years of experience (because apparently when you hit 40 you are fuck old and should have a lot of experience) and help you out here.
You want to know how to get a job when you’re 40? Let me break it down for you: LIKE ANY OTHER HUMAN BEING DOES AT ANY AGE YOU COCKTONSIL! (FYI: cocktonsil is for the writer… not you. You’re a delight, never change.)
Send CV. Go for Interview. Dazzle with your motherfluffing genius, or, cross and uncross legs like Sharon Stone showing off your lady garden that has been intricately shaved into the words “Hire me!” and taaaadaaaaa, job done.
Turning 40 is apparently a “thing”. Everyone has something to say about it… Like you cross over into some sort of dark side the minute the clock strikes twelve when you’ve been on earth for 2 scores. See, that is just some of the shit you know when you’re my age. What a “score” means… 20 years for you young uns… (Ok I lie, I didn’t know that. I googled that shit).
I am fully expecting my teeth to become loose and my bladder to become a little leaky the instant I wake up on my birthday, and I’ll begin to say shit like “In my day, I walked to school, in the snow, barefoot…” and “pass me my teeth sonny…” because that is the impression every one is giving me, and I say balls to that!
Ageism. I cannot grasp it.
Even being pregnant at my age I was listed as a “high risk pregnancy” because of my age. What the fuck? Oh no you did not just imply that my vagina is too old to push this baby out! It’s quite young and wrinkle free still I’ll have you know, just ask my doctor, he was all up in my grill for 12 hours and not once did he yell out “we’ve got an old vagina here, bring me the paddles in case we need to revive this thing…”
Yes, yes, so I’m turning 40. Big fucking whoop. Life carries on, just like it did the day before. I STILL don’t know how to do my taxes. I still get nervous when my parents use my full name. Hula Hooping completely evades me, and I still don’t know the difference between lend and borrow – and don’t care to learn either, you know what I mean so don’t give me shit about it. There’s a lot I don’t know that I probably should at my age, but meh there you go.
What I do know is that we all get there… and no one ever really “feels” their age mentally, so you can mock me now for my age. But when you come hobbling “over the hill”, I’ll be there waiting with my zimmerframe to welcome you, and to possibly lob my dentures at your stupid face.
….and I might be wearing a rubber catsuit and a gimp mask while doing it. Don’t be afraid, apparently it’s known as the “Naughty 40’s” for a reason…
Side note: Sheeezus…. don’t ever try be clever and get a Google image of “cat in rubber suit with gimp mask”… *poke out minds eye*