Thirty something (and a bit)

When Jennifer Aniston turned forty, she avoided a midlife crisis with a luxury holiday to Mexico and a renewal of her vows that blonde will always be the new blonde. When Sarah Jessica Parker turned forty, she had a perfume made of her essence (although why one would want to smell like Sarah Jessica Parker is beyond me). When Shane Warne turned forty, he avoided the psychological crash and burn of midlife by continuing to send random large busted women text messages professing undying lust (if not dyed hair). When Kylie turned forty, she began to look like a cat. When my husband turned forty...oh, sorry, that's right, he didn't. And Never Will he tells me. Got that?

And when I turned forty, I did it in style. The only way to do it. I bought something red. And by god, did it feel gooooood.




The Red One

I want the red one, thanks, ‘cause it goes faster.
It may well make a mess, cause a disaster,
but with my fine tuned skills I’ll be the master
and take the chance on ending up in plaster.

Don’t want the blue one, no, it’s not the same.
It may well sink, not swim when in the rain
and blue, well, it’s for boys, (I know that’s lame),
But, oh, I love the red - it’s like a flame.

I’ll polish it each day for best protection
and when I gaze at it, there’s my reflection
and I will smile at me, need no correction,
for choosing red is just my predilection.

I’ll keep it shiny clean and housed inside.
It will have pride of place and we will ride.
The fastest gears it hits; oh no, don’t chide.
This girl is superkeen and cannot hide

wanting the red one, yes, it’s superstition.
But if I think of pink I feel the scission
which tears my heart in two with fine precision
and even black or white cause deep derision.

And so HE trots off to the special place
where all the red ones sit and wait with grace.
Oh how I just can’t wait to set the pace.
All whirr and whizz bang biz! It will be ace.

As he returns no sign of shiny toy
and he bemoans, ‘Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy.’
My heart it caves, implodes and out seeps joy
until I rea-lise it’s a decoy.

He holds a whisk and asks, ‘Will this thing do?’

I stare dumfounded asking, ‘Would it you?’

He ponders, squinting, what oh what to do?

And then I know I shouldn’t feel so blue.

‘I’m only joking!’ he beams, just as I spy

my bright red mixmaster from my left eye.

‘Oh happy day! Thank you! I may well cry!’

‘How ‘bout instead, my love, bake lemon pie.’

So turning forty was not really hard.

Not that I am, but were I, I would star.

For if you’re going to do the crisis BLAH,

then get the RED one and it will take you far!