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Frightening Figures by Ruth Ainley

Ssshhhh.  Do not disturb.  Knit one, purl one, knit one, purl one...I’ll just finish this row then I’m going to scan the catalogues and order a nice new pair of slippers.  You know the style – tartan with pompoms on top.   And no, I haven’t gone mad – I’m just learning to act my age.  Why?  Well, in a few short weeks, I’ll – whisper it, ladies – I’ll turn F-O-R-T-Y.  Yes, 40!  I’ll be MIDDLE-AGED!

Now, I know that in the grand scheme of things turning 40 is not exactly catastrophic.  Things like flood, famine and global warming are catastrophic.  However, in my little world, the feeling of impending doom has been growing steadily since last year and, it must be said, as I approach that ‘milestone’ birthday the effects of gravity have tended to occupy my mind slightly more frequently than the effects of global warming.

Yes, each morning I stumble into the bathroom and illuminate the whole middle-aged visage with the aid of an eco-friendly light bulb – and it’s not a pretty sight sans make-up.  And (at that time of day) I daren’t even consider looking below my neck – not even with one eye shut, squinting against the light. 

But it’s not just my reflection that is proclaiming my advancing years.  Nope.  One swift look in my lingerie drawer and I realise that, gradually, even my undies have begun to declare that I’m no longer a pert young twenty-year-old…

Back in the mists of time – well, not that far back – my lingerie consisted of a great number of frothy, lacy confections.  Balconette, plunge, push-up and (forgive my vanity) padded bras all languished within said drawer.  And tucked discreetly in one corner were the answer to many a female’s prayer – the indispensable ‘chicken fillets’.  But now?  Well, said lingerie now owes more of its design features to Isambard Kingdom Brunel than to Agent Provocateur.  And the ‘chicken fillets’?  They only appear in my supermarket trolley… 

And let’s not mention the knicker drawer.  Well, okay, let’s… 

I knew it was going to happen, I’d been expecting it for years.  As I noted the gradual decline from thongs and bikinis to shorts and high legs, I grudgingly admitted that, yes, I was on the slippery slope to comfortable middle age.  But it wasn’t until last week that the full, horrible reality of the situation hit me…

Wandering around the lingerie department of M&S I stopped before a certain display.  As my hand strayed towards the proffered products I suddenly realised what I was doing.  Yes, ladies, you guessed it – I had finally succumbed and was attempting to purchase…the dreaded FULL BRIEF!  But wait, it gets worse.  For this was no single pair of full briefs.  Nope.  What my little hand had grasped was…a FULL BRIEF MULTI-PACK!  Oh, how did it ever come to this?!  And said briefs were manufactured in a lovely soft cotton fabric, embroidered with sprigs of springtime flowers…

But, as we middle-aged ladies know, it is but one short wobble from the full brief multi-pack to the holy grail of middle-aged female bottoms.  Yes, it’s our old friends the magic knickers.  But let’s be clear about this, these aren’t any old magic knickers.  These aren’t the magic knickers that svelte young twenty-year-olds pour themselves into (for reasons known only to themselves).  Nope.  We’re talking magic knickers for the more mature lady.  Yes, ladies, you know what I’m talking about – the delivered-in-a-plain-wrapper, not-yet-available-in-the-shops, deluxe magic knickers with braces for that extra ‘lift and support’.  Oh, yes, gravity has a lot to answer for...

And whatever happened to those nice seamed stockings that I used to wear?  They’ve been replaced by support tights – the ones with the reinforced top to reshape, resize and redistribute thighs, bums and tums.  But, it’s all got to go somewhere and I don’t really think my stomach is meant to be there… 

But there are worse things than turning forty – give me an hour and I’m sure I’ll think of some… 

Meantime, if you see me walking down the street, don’t expect me to glide.  Nope, I’ll be creaking and groaning along the pavement as my restructuring, restraining and redefining underwear pulls, holds, redistributes and reshapes my middle-aged bod.