A Life More Ordinary

Why did it take me until I’m 50-something to admit I’m nothing special?

Original images: Pexels/Pixabay and Mabel Amber/Pixabay

I HAD A very dull – and slightly unpleasant – epiphany on the road to Lidl yesterday.

I finally conceded that I was just an ordinary guy. A nobody, in fact.

I’d just bought stuff to top up the Ocado delivery – sausages, detergent wipes, a small pack of rocket.

I self-check-out-ed and walked home the way I always walk: past the library, up the slope and the alley behind the secondary school.

There was a lake-like puddle near the end of our road and I scurried past, so as not to get marinated by the passing cars.

And thought: “I’m so ordinary.”

I wonder: has this flash of insight ever happened to you (assuming you, too, are ordinary), or did you always know?

Please tell me that it’s not just me that’s been walking around for 50-something years, doing painfully ordinary things – but still believing, deep down, that they were somehow special? 

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Body Of A God

I’m nearly 54 and I’m still punishing myself with exercise. When will I accept that I can’t have a young person’s body any more? 

A fat Buddha statue

I’M JUST BACK from a run and in some trouble.

We’re talking pain.

We’re also talking regret here, but mainly we’re talking PAIN!!!!!!!

There’s discomfort in the hip and groin, a bit of a twinge in the right buttock *

But in the right lower back, and the right knee, it’s Bare-Feet-On-Hot-Sand-Level torture – only without the option of picking your feet up and hop/running away.

I am bearing up nobly, however, and currently fighting my symptoms with nowt but a hot water bottle pressed against my back – while reserving the right to deploy one or all of: Nurofen, ice pack, hot bath, aspirin, analgesic gel or heroin, should I deem them necessary.

Right now, I think it could be some time before I return to normal life.

A few minutes ago, I had to climb up on onto a chair to rescue a bee about to trap itself in a life-threatening nook in our conservatory.

And when the brainless insect proved resistant to being saved, some of the agony-induced names I called it were, in truth, un-bee-coming. 

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What Are You Gonna Do About it – Eyebrows?

I may be middle aged, but apparently I can still raise my brow game

Cartoon of overgrown eyebrows

I WAS WATCHING some soothing Golden Oldies on The YouTube today when I found myself unexpectedly lectured – by a series of irreproachably groomed young women who were waving some sort of pencil at me.
It soon became clear that they were flogging a product aimed at achieving The Perfect Eyebrow, a pursuit that seems to have taken over from achieving World Peace, or Abolishing Poverty, on many young ‘uns To Do lists.
I watched, too transfixed to reach for Skip Ad, as said babes exhorted me to ‘Raise your eyebrow game…. Raise your eyebrow game… Raise your Eyebrow Game….!’ and, blushingly, I wondered if it was not too late for me to do just that.
For some time now, I have been afflicted by Grandad Eyebrows – those sort of horned, sky-seeking tufts that blow in about two decades after Moobs and maybe 10 years before plugs of hair start to clog your actual earholes, like the unknowable contents of a blocked gutter. 

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