I have one week left in my thirties. I have no real qualms about being 40, it is but a number, and as I am happy in my life I have no reason to fear it. My biological clock has chimed it's last with Syd's arrival, and it's tick tock is merely counting down the years to menopause, not desperately waiting to syncopate with the heartbeat of a tiny person. Apart from complaining about my weight, I am accepting of my looks. My face will continue to become older, and yes Mum, I will remember to moisturise my neck! I don't mind the appearance of age. Like the lines of my stomach that mark where it expanded to grow my babies, the lines on my face are a mark of a life lived and loved. They are proof that I have been expressive, and laughed, and cried, and shown my face to the sun. Of course I want to minimise them a bit, but I have no urge to pin my skin behind my ears, or poison myself into an immovable false mask of youth.

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