Ain't Nothing But A Number

It's my birthday in a couple of days, where the f*ck did the time go? Unlike many of the bloggers I follow I don't include my age group in my blog title nor do I use hash tags like #over50 when I post photos on Instagram. It's not that I'm bothered by my age, it's just that I refuse to be defined by a number on my birth certificate. One of the biggest back-handed compliments anyone can pay is, You look fantastic....for your age, surely it's better for people to say you look fantastic and leave it at that? Pointing out your age at every opportunity is as bad as me constantly mentioning I've got a prosthetic hip, yes it's an important part of me but it ain't the be all and end all. People like how you look because you've invested time and effort into the finished project, pointing out your age seems almost like an apology for the end result, this is me, be easy on me, I'm not that young anymore. I've got wrinkles and it's pretty damned obvious to anyone, without the need for me to emphasise it, that I'm not in my first flush of youth and you know, so what? If you like what you see that's great and if you don't that's also perfectly fine, mentioning that I'm almost 51 won't make a blind bit of difference to your opinion of how I look.

Suzanne wrote an excellent post HERE about the things that have changed since she grew older. I feel like a total fraud as the ageing problems so many women seem to suffer have so far passed me by. My life has barely changed since I was a teenager, same drinks, same mates, same venues. Last night was spent rubbing shoulders with old school rockers, necking ice cold lagers from plastic pint glasses at Wolverhampton Civic Hall. 

What has changed is that back in the old days I'd have made an effort to fit in, to dress down rather than sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the double denim and over sized band tees. Last night's outfit consisted of a 1960s gold crochet wedding dress worn with the velvet soutache jacket bought off Walsall market last week (now Vixified with metallic black frog fasteners). When I've been out in the dress previously (bought from a car boot sale over ten years ago) I've always worn the nude coloured slip it came with underneath. Last night, with the increased body confidence that comes with dropping a stone in weight since I turned fifty, I left the slip on the bedroom floor and went for a pair of black leggings and a teeny-weeny charity-shopped Topshop crop top with cut out side panels instead. Despite not looking like any other gig goer in the entire venue I was complimented by so many people I was almost lost for words.

No longer being the shy retiring girl of my youth, I insisted Paul Manzi, lead singer of Cats In Space, last night's support, posed with me for a photo - with his incredible gold brocade frock coat we looked like we were the band.

Young Vix wouldn't have been seen dead at a poodle rock gig. She was far too serious about her music, if John Peel didn't play it or the NME didn't endorse it then she wasn't interested. These days I don't give a toss as to whether something's cool or hip, if I want to go then I'll go (especially when I've blagged free tickets!)

The main attraction for last night's event was Status Quo. The first (and only time) I bought a Quo record was 1978 but they've been around forever with a loyal following so I reckoned they must have something. My old receptionist was so obsessed with Francis Rossi, she booked a day off work for his birthday every year.

Something else that's changed since I got older is that if I don't like something nothing's going to change my mind. Life's too short to persevere with badly-written books, terrible TV series, feeble films and boring bands so, sorry Quo, we left before the end of the set.

Quickly linking to Patti & The Gang for Visible Monday before heading off to 'Spoons for the day. Well, it is (nearly) my birthday!