So (not) MILF

Another four days and I’ll be 32. Frankly I don’t want to be 32 and if you asked me – even if you didn’t – I’m not ready for it. I’d barely turned 30 and now I’m being told it’s been two years since. When the hell did that happen? How? 

I’ve been in a bit of a funk for some time now, the blog silence being one of the resultant ramifications. There have been other ones too. Like not wanting to get a pedicure, a refusal to wear low-waist jeans and an absolute hatred for anything labeled ‘anti-ageing’.  I don’t bloody need it all right? Even if I have Olay’s Total Effects anti-ageing cream for the mornings, the skin-revival night cream and three different brands of foundation to ‘make you look five years younger’. It’s evil how the number of reduced years promised on anti-ageing paraphernalia is inversely proportional to the number of years you add on. I really didn’t want to look 10 years younger when I was 25 but I could do with it now. I am pretty certain I don’t want to feel 22 but I wouldn’t mind looking it. Not one bit.

Like the other night when we attended this 21^st birthday party. There were all these dewy-looking I-hate-to-say-it, ‘youngsters’ – even the boys were bloody glowing – and there was me cradling Mia, feeling supremely jealous. Even though Partner said I looked good, unprompted. I wore a red dress in silk, fitted and well-tailored and with a fair bit of boobage. Let me clarify that I was not flaunting my assets; I simply cannot escape the boobage. The boobs aren’t going anywhere. Even if there are times – and often – when I want to leave them on my bedside table. There’s been a fair bit of boob-related writing on this blog and I’m not surprised to tell you – and bet you aren’t surprised either – that I still haven’t found any happy state of coexistence with my boobs. In fact it’s getting worse. Like this post was NOT supposed to be a boob post but look how they’ve taken over! See what I mean?

Perhaps it’s not just the boobs. I’m finding it pretty darn hard relating to some other aspects of my current situation/status/whateveryouwannacallit as well. I LOVE being a mother. I live and breathe Mia and if I could, I’d probably eat her as well she’s so darned cute. I’m pretty sure I’ve eroded her cheeks by the constant kissing. BUT. I really don’t want my boobs to constantly declare, “I am a Mam and these are my Mammaries”. And I don’t want to be a MILF simply because I’m not very certain about the ILF bit. (sigh) And my belly. No matter how hard I pull in and even when I wear a size 8 Nancy Ganz – all other clothes are now firmly size 10-12 – there is some bit of it still showing. “You’ll never look like a girl anymore JB,” my MIL said couple of weeks back. I know, I know and it’s all right but I really could do without having to use clothes clips to fold my tummy into my jeans waistband. 

Or being told, “A bit of a cougar are you?” when I asked about a rather tasty nice looking young man at the 21^st. Here I was perving at a younger man and everyone at the dining table – ie Partner and his parents – thought it was hugely funny. I was hoping for some reaction from Partner, certainly not a guffaw. In fact Partner laughs each time I try to make him jealous. For instance the other day when we went for Mia’s swimming classes. Instead of being a dedicated mother oohing over her baby’s swimming prowess, I spent the half hour perving at this really hot-bod Chinese dad. He had Jay Z’s body and even though he was in a budgy smuggler he carried himself regally, like Katsumoto from The Last Samurai, if you know what I mean. So I told Partner later and all I got from him was “You little perv” and a wink. Huh? What about some jealousy then? A feeling of I-better-watch-my-wife*? Or a little uncertainty about his body perhaps? Maybe even a slight worry about the spark in our relationship? And how come I started thinking/feeling all that when I was the one doing the perving?

So not milf material. :(

(PS: *wife. It’s a technicality and I am not one technically.)