Things I Expected to Lose with Age – Dignity Wasn’t One of Them

There are plenty of things I expected to lose as I got older.

My thick, dark hair? Yep, I saw that one coming. It’s been slowly abandoning ship for the past few years, taking my centre parting and catwalk volume with it.

My stamina to run up the stairs (without questioning the loyalty of my pelvic floor muscles)? Also gone, along with the ability to get off the laminate without making that awkward “oof” noise that sounds like I’m 87.

My memory? Yeah to be honest, that was never a reliable source to begin with, so I can’t even blame age for that one.

But my dignity? That one crept up on me. Quietly. Sneakily. Like my orange moron of a cat on the kitchen counter.

And never has it made its grand exit more dramatically than it did over the weekend.

Picture the scene: me, crouched over a very slippery rock at the beach, twisted into a position that could’ve been either:

1. Preparing to birth a 'miracle' child that I knew nothing about,

2. Attempting a rogue yoga pose as an intimidating show of dominance against the seagulls (after one swooped in and pinched my son’s croissant not ten minutes earlier), or

3. Trying to release a trapped nerve in my lower back while saving myself from face-planting in a rock pool.

There was ow-ing. There was oo-ing. There was a panicked “Oh no, here it comes!” that, I now realise, probably sounded a lot like someone having a spiritual crisis in public. To clarify, nothing came, except the tide. And a crowd... Well, not quite a crowd. But two families is definitely enough to be called an audience when you’re mid-squat, drenched in sea spray and personal shame.

The wives looked traumatised. The husbands looked anywhere but in my direction, possibly to avoid causing their own scene. And there was a dog, whom I silently begged not to come bounding over and knock me into the murky water below.

No graceful exit strategy presented itself. Just a slippery retreat, a few strained smiles, and the missing of an opportunity to yell, “I’m fine! Just trying to take some marketing photos of my new book - do you want a copy?"

See, I’m not very good at this. The balancing on rocks or the free-fall marketing.

I’m a self-confessed mess in public – no people skills, no smooth second-hand car sales patter. And definitely no “Can I interest you in a signed copy?” confidence.

I don’t do slick. I do awkward foot shuffling, panic-chat, and inappropriate silence fillers, like a wedding DJ, scrambling to put literally anything on, only to end up blasting I’m a Barbie Girl at 90 dB.

And as for my fading dignity? Yeah… probably best we don’t bring that up again.

Anyway, as we draw to the end of this painfully funny confession, I just want to say, To heck with the hecklers! By which I mean, no matter what you do in life, shameful or otherwise, someone will always be there to judge. Some folk will pretend to look the other way, while others demand answers, reasoning, and justification.

But you don't owe them any of it, so just do you. Always.

Even if 'doing you' involves an awkward mid-rock squat, a rising tide, and a traumatised audience of beachgoers. Even if your dignity took off three birthdays ago and never looked back. Even if your inner monologue sounds like a panicked wedding DJ half the time.

Because the truth is, life’s too short to wait until you’ve got it all together. If you’re showing up, messy, honest, slightly damp from sea spray, then you’re doing just fine.

And frankly, you’re my kind of people. P.S. If this post made you laugh, cry, or feel just a little bit more human, that’s exactly what my book was written for. You can grab a copy over on Amazon, or if you'd prefer a signed edition, just drop me a message.

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 “You grow up the day you have your first real laugh – at yourself.”

Ethel Barrymore