Another challenge is that I am still unmarried. Now my pool of eligible men is literally reduced to what I not so long ago considered omalume.
Very soon I will find myself on a date with a man on the wrong side of 40, with a string of ex-lovers and a few kids here and there. Then I will most probably discover that his best fatherhood act is depositing money every month-end and keeping recent photos of his spawn.
In fact, the selection criteria for a partner will now be reduced to simple things like finding someone with a good strong heart and some stamina, hoping they prioritise health and wellness and are open to the idea of a men's clinic.
Meanwhile, I will have to endure nudes that look like sun-dried potatoes with red and grey pubes.
I will now be duty-bound to attend family meetings and will be expected to contribute towards the fund for the catering. And when the kids relate how boring elders are, they will be counting me among that lot.
My youth is coming to an end.
Very soon someone will have to pull off my pantyhose, petticoat and full panties before they can get any love from me.
I am officially the s'gogwane people will frown at for not wearing dresses that cover the knees.
The passage of time takes a heavy toll on my morale
I am petite and cute, and maybe even sexy when the lights are out. I have pretty much fared through life not worried about the passing of time, thanks to my good genes and childish looks.
But, this week I had to contend with the reality of aging. While engaged in my weekly grooming and vanity routine I found a grey hair - down there!
Okay, I am turning 36 in less than a month and I don't even know what the age between youth and pension is called.
Truth is, I am devastated by this transition. I am not ready. I still look and feel young. I don't even know what to do with my youth league membership card at this juncture. do I subscribe to the political extension of younglings or succumb to the "send me" call along with my fellow veterans?
While my physique may fool a few people into believing my mood swings are nothing related to menopause, I do worry about the locks on my head.
I have been cutting my hair off once a year since I was 13. Then suddenly I realised that I might not enjoy that freedom any longer. I am now afraid that it just might not grow back. I have entered that sensitive age of ungovernable hairlines that recede at seven millimetres a month.
Another challenge is that I am still unmarried. Now my pool of eligible men is literally reduced to what I not so long ago considered omalume.
Very soon I will find myself on a date with a man on the wrong side of 40, with a string of ex-lovers and a few kids here and there. Then I will most probably discover that his best fatherhood act is depositing money every month-end and keeping recent photos of his spawn.
In fact, the selection criteria for a partner will now be reduced to simple things like finding someone with a good strong heart and some stamina, hoping they prioritise health and wellness and are open to the idea of a men's clinic.
Meanwhile, I will have to endure nudes that look like sun-dried potatoes with red and grey pubes.
I will now be duty-bound to attend family meetings and will be expected to contribute towards the fund for the catering. And when the kids relate how boring elders are, they will be counting me among that lot.
My youth is coming to an end.
Very soon someone will have to pull off my pantyhose, petticoat and full panties before they can get any love from me.
I am officially the s'gogwane people will frown at for not wearing dresses that cover the knees.