Of sponges, squeegees, and Scrabble tiles: The unexpected joys of growing older

A birthday is an amazing thing. What could be better than a whole day dedicated to eating cake without the headache of pretending to care about calories? Of course, if Mawra Hocane’s Instagram handle is to be believed, birthdays occur several times a year, with a more or less constant stream of elaborately decorated cakes.

However, for those of us who have accrued a rather large number of conventional birthdays (i.e. one per year), every new birthday signals the dawning of a new era. As you inch ever closer to the magical four-oh, you are welcomed with open arms into the era of chin hair and the era of a body that develops a soft spot for waistlines. (The bigger the better, that is your body’s motto.) This is also the era of hair that considers it its bounden duty to morph to white and adopt an exterior the texture of sandpaper. To truly stand out, this modified (and extremely flamboyant) hair in this new era will also stand to attention as if reaching out to the stars above.

With age comes wisdom – and happiness

But all is not doom and gloom. You will have heard that once people enter this new era of uninvited chin hair, they stop caring about the opinions of others, such as the folks who are currently chin-hair-free. This is indisputably true. We care little for the withering disapproval of salon ladies. Instead, we direct our energies towards things that we would have never dreamed would arouse even the hint of an opinion, let alone a flaming passion.

Things like a new sponge, for example. A grim post-dinner washing-up session can be transformed when you release a brand-new sponge from its cellophane packaging and set it to work. Do not fall for the mantra of those who claim washing dishes is therapeutic. Washing dishes is a work of evil, but the pain can be diminished somewhat by the appearance of a beautiful new yellow sponge with a gorgeous stiff green untouched backing.

Joy in the strangest of places

Please do not assume that this newfound joy for random objects is limited to sponges. It extends to a really good broom, the squeegee of your dreams (yes, your dreams take a new direction as you exit your thirties), and the perfect non-stick spatula that removes every last speck of cake batter from the bowl. “Look!” you will cry. “This bowl! It looks as if it’s just been washed! But it hasn’t!”

Not everyone will understand your tears of happiness at your non-stick spatula, which must now be protected at all costs. Of course, if kitchen items do not stir such strong feelings in you just yet, you can go searching for joy in an old handbag, which you threw in your wardrobe last February and haven’t seen since. Old handbags are a haven of buried treasure. The pure electric joy of rediscovering your lost Mac satin silk lipstick is undeniable. Incidentally, in this quest to aid the happiness of would-be pensioners, handbags also hold surprise items. Like the lost Z from your Scrabble. Yes, high-ticket Scrabble tiles can make their way into handbags. Do not ask me why. Blame it on your old age. Embrace it, and the unexpected joy it brings with it.