A combination of being both skint and disorganised has led us to spend this half-term at home, staring despondently out at the rain and feeling more than a trifle uninspired. It has also ignited in me an urge to spring-clean, and gripped with excitement, I texted LSB to say that I’d finally tackled the air-fryer, a chore I’ve been putting off for months.
I guess this answers the question, how do you know you’ve hit peak middle-age? Aside from the sounds that escape when collapsing on the sofa, my algorithms have a way of reminding me, with ads for mould busters popping up on my feed. These exhort me to keep a firm eye on my washing machine, apply deterrent to my window sills and be vigilant for potential fungi in my shower. Given that I’ve never typed the word ‘mould’ into my phone, I am puzzled by this. However, what might persuade you that I am embracing ‘grandma chic’ was a recent purchase I made. Granted, my finger did hover over ‘Buy now’, while I contemplated this shift into a new demographic, but I disregarded it, and hopefully soon, (if the courier doesn’t fire it into the Lagan) I shall be in possession of a new ironing board cover, in William Morris print. Doesn’t get more exciting than that, does it?
Maybe I’m not getting old, just very dull. I hate to think this is the case, but such is the overwhelm of life, it can be hard to be any craic; just ask LSB. We found ourselves with a rare afternoon free last month so ventured to a pub, for drinks and some truffle fries, (which he didn’t eat, but I did.) Well, this is nice, I said, as we chinked glasses and I sipped my Vino Verde. Just then, I remembered the muddiness of the dog’s coat, so I voiced this concern, suggesting the need of a separate washing appliance for canine apparel. Should we take them to a launderette? Or, I ventured, another solution could be to pop it in our own machine then disinfect it after. While I ruminated thus, poor auld LSB looked dismally into his Guinness.
I was regaling my colleagues with this tale of woe the following Monday, complaining that most interactions with my husband revolve around household logistics. Gone are messages about upcoming plans, or the sweet missives we used to send each other. Now we exchange updates about laundry, ferrying children, and putting out the bins. LSB accidentally sent such a message into his mates’ group chat the other day. ‘Fantastically mundane’ was the consensus from one who read it before LSB realised his mistake. But as I complained about the lack of romance, I caught one of my girls in the staff room shaking her head at me. ‘I know,’ I said, assuming she was sympathising with my plight. ‘We’ve got so old, and so boring.‘ Well, didn’t I have the wrong end of the stick!
‘You don’t know how lucky you are!’ she said with feeling. ‘I know plenty of people who would LOVE to get a text like that, so they know they’re not going home to a tip and their husbands might actually have the dinner on. That’s a love letter you have right there. Don’t knock it!’ So as Saint Valentine’s Day approaches, instead of lamenting this stage in our relationship, I shall celebrate instead, while casting my eye around the house to see what I need help with next…