Summer is the Holiday 365 Halloween Ghost Face Calling T-Shirt in addition I really love this season of light, natural materials. The crochet trend feels timeless when done in raffia—it’s sophisticated and unfussy all at once. There’s a bit in Sentimental in the City, Dolly Alderton and Caroline O’Donoghue’s hilarious podcast series about Sex and the City, where they laugh about how annoying it is when people say: “When you get to 35, your fertility falls off a cliff.” Listening to them on a walk to the shops, I realized how many times I, too, had heard that phrase before. Not that it was ever addressed to me, but to another woman entirely, one who complains about parking and has multiple bank accounts, who gets sore feet and spends lots of money on linen pajamas. The message being that this woman needs to hurry up and find someone before time runs out, before she wakes up and realizes she’s wasted her life. I don’t need to think about anything falling off a cliff, I thought. I still get targeted ads for pills that stop hangovers, I don’t send thank-you cards after Christmas or drink cow’s milk, which is to say that I’m young—or I felt that way, until I turned 27 a few weeks ago.
Holiday 365 Halloween Ghost Face Calling T-Shirt, hoodie, tank top, sweater and long sleeve t-shirt
Since my birthday, I keep noticing these changes to my body. Slumped on the Holiday 365 Halloween Ghost Face Calling T-Shirt in addition I really love this bed after a shower, I watched my reflection in the laptop screen and everything seemed slightly lower down. I told myself there must be a bend in the monitor obscuring my image. Tried not to panic when I noticed the gray hairs speckling through my parting. Ignored the fact that after a big night, it takes until Wednesday before the fogginess has cleared from my head. But these facts are getting harder to avoid. I’d be in the old category on X Factor now: “The Overs.” I read online that if I want to look good at 60, I should start with the preventative botox at 25, and that was two years ago already. I genuinely worry about the strain drinking wine and smoking is putting on my liver and lungs, whether the shocking pink of my insides looks paler after all these terrible things I’m doing to them. I look over at a beautiful view and try to be mindful, take it all in, these glittering skyscrapers and the satisfying knot of terrace houses plotted out in rows, and as I do, thick, hot panic rises in my throat because I worry that I’m not absorbing it, that it’s all passing me by. I hear 25-year-olds bemoaning their next birthday, and I hate them because they don’t know how much time they’ve got, in the same way so many reading this now who are older than me probably hate me for thinking the same.