I’m growing content in middle age. I’m aware that playing in rock bands at my age means I’m living something of an extended adolescence, but I rather like my increasingly greying temples. It suits me. I’m never going to use Just For Men, because I’ve decided it’s Just For Vain Wankers. I enjoy not having shopping as a recreational activity. I really, really like the staying in and watching telly, and not having people reminding me that it’s Friday, and because it’s Friday, I should be out and not home. I’m fucking sick of people telling me how Friday it is.
I like leaving things early (parties, nights out, do’s) and getting a good night’s sleep. I’m not so fussed on my increasingly cushiony middle, and the fact that said cushion takes too long to atrophy when dieting, or the occasional and painful twangy ping of understretched muscles, but apart from my body shutting down piece by piece over the course of the next few decades, middle-age is my time. I’m more comfortable with the way I look than at any time in my life. In fact, I think I’m entering my prime.
However, there’s something I’ve avoided doing. An item of clothing I’ve always resisted until now. But seeing as I’ve discovered that one of life’s true joys is to fall asleep on the sofa during daytime at the weekend, it seems only right that I buy a set of clothes purely for flumping in.
I’ve rocked leggings for years now, which has disturbed some people, and not just because they’re impressively tight and enhance…erm… ‘physical detail’, but possibly for reasons that I’m buying women’s clothes (don’t care). I would happily wear leggings onstage at gigs, if it weren’t for Sarah very firmly advising me not to. They’re comfy, supportive, and have a good action.
But now I’m stepping up to the big leagues. I’ve bought “lounge wear”. Boom, motherfuckers.
Technically, they’re pyjamas. I haven’t worn pyjamas since I was about 9 years old, and back then I utterly rejected them and swore never to go pantless under soft trousers ever again, so to buy a matching set of Jammies is really a big leap for me.
And once they’re on, they’re on. Nobody is allowed to prise me out of them (although I had to put on a pair of jeans over the top the other Sunday to go out to the Co-op and get milk). Not only do I love my new jimmy-jams, but I’ve bought a deputy pair, for when my master set (from M&S) is in the wash. Sadly, the deputy pair is from Peacocks, which means the trousers are the right width, but too long, and the top is a little tight, and my man-nipples are clearly visible. My M&S ones are perfect.
And yes, I know the next step is to have tan leather driving gloves, and that indicates a slippery descent into middle-aged bumble, but I’m actually totally up for that.
So. Very. Totally.