Forever young. Eighteen till I die! There are tens of terms women use to describe the ageing process, a million ways to deal with the denial of the appearance of wrinkles at the outer corner of the eyes, otherwise known as crow’s feet or if you want to be politically correct laughter lines, sagging skin in certain places and slow metabolism.
But ageing, by any other name, is ageing. And it is unstoppable. It is also hard to control, unless you do some nip here and tuck here, but age is un-trickable.
If it were up to women, they would not age; they would be 50 years old but still have the looks of a 25-year-old. Of course, nobody minds the wisdom that comes with age.
If it were up to women, they would not age; they would be 50 years old but still have the looks of a 25-year-old. Of course, nobody minds the wisdom that comes with age.
I have this friend who is in her early 40s, single, but has one child. She is still absolutely gorgeous and turns male heads left, right and centre; the girl even causes traffic to slow down. She is a gym enthusiast and her dressing style shows the number of hours she spends in the gym.
Until a couple of years ago, she thought she was a happy spinster. Call it the effects of ageing, call it change of heart, even call it the realisation that she is not going to have the male choice meat for much longer, no matter the number of hours she spends in the gym.
She does not know why she wants to get married, but she wants to. For two years, she has been on the lookout for a potential man, but disappointment pitches tent at every corner. Why?
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