I was getting ready for bed, when I saw them. Unmistakably, undeniably, there. Dancing above my scalp, taunting me, mocking me. I had to act, to go on the offensive. How dare they!

Out came my trusted weapon of choice. The mission was complicated by the fact that I was half blind at that point but I was focused and determined, contact lenses or not. Peering into the mirror, and trying my very best to avoid collateral damage, I exterminated them, one by one.

My white hairs!

I know, I shouldn’t pluck them. There’s the immediate collateral damage – you inevitably pull a few of the black ones out too – and the longer term one. I was informed by various sources that plucking one white hair hastens the whitening of the black ones around it. I’m usually pretty long term in my approach but when it comes to my hair, instant gratification is the name of the game.

I’m nearing the mid point of my time on Earth. Assuming I’m given 80. Ok, fine. I’m almost 40. There, I’ve said it.. I never thought I would be 40. 40 is my mum, my aunts, my teachers. 40 is not me. But here I am, on the cusp…

Husband, bless him, would tell me I could pass as 30 – on a good day. Otherwise, 32. Son says mama looks like 29. He’s my darling for a reason. I can feel you rolling your eyes, but cut this auntie (to-be) some slack!

Youth, or the loss of it, is a key component of my petrification. I dread the day when I look into the mirror and know that that McQueen doesn’t belong to my body anymore. Or those Stella McCartney metallic brogues are somehow out of sync with the rest of me. When I’ll want to cover my knees not because midi/maxi skirts are in fashion but to hide those telltale folds (knees and elbows are the worst betrayers of your age so grease them up religiously). When I actually prefer those Dolce & Gabbana lace sneakers over the Saint Laurent Tributes gathering dust in my shoe cupboard. Don’t worry, I won’t wait until someone tells me I’m mutton dressing up as lamb. Not because it’s my calling in life to fit into moulds created by others, but because I have exacting expectations of myself. So when the day comes, I shall accept it with dignity, and tears.

The larger component though, is Time. The passage of Time. The loss of Time. Everyone of us has a finite amount of time, though some have more than others. But none of us knows how much exactly. Which makes planning a somewhat useless exercise. I can say I’ll do this and that when I’m 50. But how do I know I have 50? All I know is with each passing year, I have less. When my time is up, would I have achieved what I set out to? Would I have become the person I aspired to be? Would I have loved all those I love the way I wanted to? Would I have seen and experienced as much of what Life has to offer as I dreamt of?

This obsession (fear) drives me to a large degree. It explains why I refuse to just show up at work, put in 9 to 5, and then go home. I want to find out how much I can achieve in one lifetime.

It explains why I’m learning Japanese now, and will pick up Spanish next. Plus why I’m writing this blog. I am curious how much I can learn in the time I’m given.

It explains why I make it a mission to take Dad to see the world at least once a year (Mum, alas, doesn’t like to travel). Which reminds me – I haven’t planned this year’s…

It also explains why I don’t tend to bear grudges and indulge negativity. There’s way too little time for that. When Husband wanted to give entrepreneurism a shot, I was all for it. It meant I had to be the main breadwinner for a while, but that cannot compare to the value, and magic, of chasing the rainbow.

Ironically, given the way I inject a sense of urgency into everything, my lifespan will probably be significantly shortened. But hey, I’ll never know that for sure. I’ll know though if I haven’t tried to make the most of the precious and finite time I had. It’s a regret I never want to have.