The wedding and the age spot

This morning I woke up and noticed I have an age spot. A pale little mole-like spot on my cheek screaming “fuck girl, you’re getting old”.


Funny how these moments often occur at such perfect – or rather utterly shite – timing.

You see last night I went to a wedding. I was my bestie’s plus one, so I didn’t know the couple, but however close you are to the bride and groom there’s something so emotional about a wedding. Even before I was hitched I always found myself welling up about the commitment two people were making to each other. The future they were about to start, the adventure, the anticipation, the new chapter. Now I’m married myself, weddings always make me think about my wonderful wedding to Mr MotherFudger. The start of us being Team MF.

When you’re a bit of a bystander at a wedding it makes you notice the detail even more so – especially as I was ‘Des’ so wasn’t drinking. The thing that totally stood out was how many hipsters there were. Most of the groom’s mates were beardy coiffured men in their 20s with neck tattoos and skinny trousers.

Mr MF doesn’t look like a hipster. Neither do his friends.

It was a sledgehammer of reality that actually, we’re not the young kids on the block anymore. We are aging, with kids, mortgages, commitments and age spots.

Now normally I’m a dancer, I love shaking my big ole booty but honestly, I really struggled with the music. So much of it was really clubby dancey stuff I hadn’t even heard of. Even thinking that made me want to reach for a full syringe of Botox.

Drunk Bestie was encouraging me to dance and I honestly thought ‘I can’t’. How the fuck do you move to ‘Soulja Boy’?* Well the hipster lads knew – there’s even a chuffing dance routine. Clearly I’ve aged myself out of getting the memos…even the word memos would be lost on them. Fuck.

It made me feel really bloody old. And if I’m honest I couldn’t help but think how shite a lot of modern music is.

None of this was helped by a large percentage of our current home chat revolving around our shit heap of a car and what we’re going to do after spending £1000 in the last few months and it still not working properly. Growing up rocks, it really does.

As I love my friend, I did dance, and eventually found the groove I thought I’d left back in 2003. Then, as if the DJ knew, he put on “On a Ragga Tip”, SL2, 1992.** WHAT A TOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON. It was our time. It was immense. And from there on in we were all over that dance floor and mixing with the hipsters. Who needs Soulja Boy?!

I may be getting old, we may have handed over the yoff baton to those younger kids. My 20s couldn’t have been more of a blast, it was truly the hedonistic decade I hope my children enjoy, but actually, that time has passed. As I sit in my lounge, with my babes asleep in bed, my shitheap of a Zafira in the driveway, a secure job and a happy marriage to a lovely man I’m more than happy to embrace my 30s, and middle age.

Plus – we have YouTube, so there can always be lounge discos every night of the week:

*When I searched for the video I typed in Soldier Boy – nuff said.

**No need to look that one up!


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