I was intrigued to discover today that although the early morning alien look is creeping up on me, my Real Age is actually only 23. I did some 'fun' test on Facebook today, stuck in all the details of my exciting (ahem) life and it seems I'm barely more than a teenager inside.
Which makes me wonder how old I'll get, and whether I'll be skipping about like a mountain goat aged 90 because inside I'll only be 69.
To be so young and spry is easy. Take one divvy unchallenging unstressful job. Mix in some exercise and reasonable food. Take out all the smoking. Add a little alcohol (no, that does not include 3 glasses of wine and a G&T per day...), some good friends, and soak overnight.
If you're on Facebook, take the test and swap notes.
Encouraged by such obvious glowing health, I signed up for some beautiful-me treatments on Monday. It's a holiday for me so rather than get my hair cut, I'm going to get tortured and buffed to within half an inch of my pain tolerance levels. I was reading on the internet site of the place I'm going to that there's a method for ridding the body of extraneous hair by some light system. I was all enthusiastic at such a painless-sounding treatment until I phoned for the price. "You want 'alf a leg done, mate? Tha'll be a hundred nicker..." On second thoughts, maybe I think I can put up with a little pain finalement. I gave birth twice without painkillers (and not from choice I might add), what's a little sting here 'n' there?
Talking of pain, ever tried ripping out top lip hairs? It's excruciating! But as we young Real Lifers get on a bit, those damn hairs just keep on sprouting and before you know it, you've got a friggin' moustache! So out they have to come. And OUCH as out they come.
Beauty is sooo painful.