IT was our fourth wedding anniversary yesterday and we went out for the whole day. By ourselves. AT NIGHT.
I did look around in the cinema for the lift to carry the buggy before realising that I had no buggy with me, and I did lean over and cut my husband’s steak up into bite sized pieces at dinner, but apart from that I behaved normally.
We thrun The Beast into his Nana’s and skipped off into town for a wander around the shops, an afternoon at the flicks (Insurgent, was good) and then dinner in a very adult restaurant.
There were no buggies here let me tell you, no high chairs either and the only noise was the buzz of the blender as the barman made cocktails for the table next to us. It. Was. Fucking. Bliss.
After dinner then we hopped on the Luas and went to the Point for a gig. Sting and Paul Simon were playing and as Yer Man is a huge fan it was the perfect way to end the day.
Laughing, we jostled and bumped our way onto the tram and stood closely together, delighted with ourselves. Young, free and in love, what could go wrong?
“I can’t wait for this now,” sez Yer Man. “Last time I saw Paul Simon I was only 19 and the rest of the audience were oul lads. Probably 40!”
I could almost see the thought process churning behind his eyes before he arrived, skidding, to the conclusion.
“Oh Jesus,” he gasped, horrified. “Now WE’RE forty!”
He was right. Not quite forty, but not far off.
Nervously we looked around the tram. There were some people there older than us, in their 50s and 60s, but quite a lot younger than us. Like, DECADES younger than us.
We’re no longer the youngest people at anything. We certainly weren’t the youngest at this concert. They were all there, with their hipster beards and their iPhones; drinking copiously and enjoying themselves.
When did that happen? When did I stop being a young wan and start being middle-aged? I know it’s all about how you feel, I know that, but seriously, to the young ones on the tram yesterday, I was middle-aged. Past it. I mean, I still type www into the address bar for God’s sake. It’s true, I’m getting old.
HOW did that happen?
Once the realisation hit me I couldn’t relax. Even though rationally I knew that being close to 40 is not old at all, I could almost physically feel myself ageing as I sat there.
Jealously I looked at the couple in front of me, barely in their twenties, cuddling and enjoying themselves. Bet she doesn’t know what it feels like to pee every time you sneeze, I thought bitterly.
I’ll bet that lad over there doesn’t obsess over keeping the grass cut and making sure the house insurance is up to date, I mused, hysterically.
Shake it off, I told myself, relax. Think about Yer Man. He’s a bit younger than you and he has a really young-looking face. A baby face actually, nobody could think he was middle-aged.
I looked over and took in his unlined smiling cherub face, his sparkling eyes, his full head of hair and felt my blood pressure start to drop.
Then I looked again.
He was Dad dancing.
That’s right, up on his feet awkwardly shaking his hips and clapping along to the music, like a drunk Dad at a wedding.
Ah Jaysis! In a way there’s a part of me that doesn’t mind getting, and certainly looking, older but I comforted myself with the knowledge that at least I have a young husband.
Not any more, apparently. At least he was enjoying himself though; shuffling away, raising his hands above his head and whooping along with the young fellas.
After the concert we slunk off home for a mug of Horlicks, before putting on our nightcaps and sliding into our separate twin beds. Well, not really. But we did go home cos we were wrecked and couldn’t face trying to beat our way to the bar in a crowded pub.
So it’s pretty official now. I’m a young wan no longer. But I suppose at least I have an oul fella to keep me company. Still crazy (about him) after all these years.