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j0385227Today my kids were lucky enough to be invited to a bowling party hosted by players from Melbourne Victory.

I have to admit that I don’t really follow soccer, so I quickly gave myself a Google education and we headed off -autograph book in hand.

While we were driving to the bowling alley the kids and I ruminated over what the soccer players would be like. 

The conversation went like this:

Mum to son: “I’m sure they’ll be nice. Why don’t you tell them that you played soccer last season for school?”

Son to Mum: “Awww Mum, that’s so not cool to walk up to some random stranger and say stuff like that. Maybe in your day, when you were a hippie, that was okay.”

Grrr. My son needs a history lesson.

I’m not that old. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a hippie. What a fabulous time in history to be alive. But unless my Mother painted a peace sign and flowers on my nappy in late 1969 no one could possibly classify me as being a part of the hippie movement. (A product of the hippie movement possibly, but not a part of it.)

My son’s comment did however make me think about how old I feel.

For the past few weeks I’ve noticed a little intruder on my head. He’s a silver little focker poking his unwanted face through the roots of my dye job.

When I try to get sympathy from my husband he simply points to his own salt and pepper hair and looks at me with an expression that reads: what the fock are you complaining about?  it’s nothing honey- barely noticeable.

I need a more sympathetic audience.

I part my fringe- in indignation, to show my Italian Mother-in-law. She took a close look and said “Mmm yes… you’re getting old.”

It wasn’t the response I was hoping for.

My Father-in-law said “I don’t worry about getting old anymore.” Oh good, I thought, here’s some words of wisdom on facing ageing gracefully. “I don’t worry about getting old anymore because I’m old already. Too late to worry now!”

They laugh their heads off. I don’t think it’s funny.

I don’t feel old at all. But I’ve noticed of late that I have begun to worry about it.

So here’s the big question: What age do you stop worrying about being old and actually start being old?

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