In her late 20s, writer Clare Morrisroe thought she knew exactly how her life would pan out. How wrong she was…
I was recently at the 58th birthday bash of one of my closest friends. It was a ‘girls only’ do in her kitchen – fearful (as we always are) that the inclusion of any husbands/ partners might hamper our fun. There was dancing, lots of laughter and way too much prosecco consumed by the birthday girl.
We’ve been pals since our late 20s and our daughters are now 29 – the same age we were when we first met. Did I think back then, that as a mid-life menopausal woman, I’d still be trying to rock 1980s harem pants, have an Instagram addiction and enjoy heated discussions about whether Brooklyn Beckham’s wife is really into him?
Not for a minute. I thought I knew exactly how the future would look as I hit my sixth decade. But life got in the way and destiny had other plans. Here are some of my expectations – and how things really turned out.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned
I’D STILL BE MARRIED
Like most romantic (hashtag naïve) brides, I took my wedding vows believing our union would last forever. I was 28, madly in love, pregnant and determined to honour that pledge: til death do us do part. What I didn’t realise was that a successful marriage requires more than just good sex, a mortgage and a couple of kids to hold it together. Romance is a rocky road that needs navigation via good communication, mutual respect and compromise. We held it together for 20 years, but the blame game turned us into enemies. Both feeling unheard and needing to be right, eventually made everything wrong. I still feel pangs of sadness (and jealously) when I see couples who’ve weathered the storms and come through with their family units still intact.
I FINALLY LIKE THE WAY I LOOK
I imagined I’d be a lot fatter and look a lot older than I actually do. Most of my 30s were spent obsessing about wrinkles I didn’t have and cellulite that was barely there. I was on a mission to look younger and slimmer with fad diets, punishing exercise regimes, push-up bras and false nails. Yet I see photos and wonder why on earth I was so hard on myself. I see now that I was crippled, like most young women, by expectations of how we should look: pretty, skinny, fully made up (a critical mother didn’t help!). Today I know what clothes suit my shape, that shorter hair looks better on my face and that green is my colour and enhances not just my wardrobe, but my mood. I’m starting to like the way I look and finally accepting my face and body just as they are. On saying that, I will still break the arm of anyone
