I'll do it later (Botox, kids, driving lessons)
When ageing creeps up on you and you're not ready yet
In this essay, I mention the topic of children and fertility, so I’m giving a heads-up in case you’d prefer not to read about that.
When the news broke that Princess Diana had died, I asked how old she was. Only 36, I was told. This is wild to admit now but in my 11-year-old brain, I thought, that’s a shame for poor William and Harry but at least she didn’t die young (I know, I know).
My own mother was only 32 at the time, and so I assumed 36 was roughly middle-aged. I thought that was the stage when you’re coasting along comfortably, having already done the serious stuff like getting married, buying a house, having kids, travelling the world, building a career, and getting a weird haircut that you laugh about later.
I regularly tell people that I’m 36 and I believe it. It sounds about right. I don’t have any reason to lie about my age and I correct myself when the wrong number slips out, I just can’t keep up with the passing of time. I’m actually 38 and it’s a number that I struggle to compute when I hear myself say it aloud or see it written down. When did that happen? How did so many years slip by?
Despite the suffocating pressure that’s piled on women in their thirties to get pregnant before it’s too late (the reminders about ticking clocks became constant when I turned 34), I didn’t panic. It didn’t feel like a pressing decision that I had to make yet.