Just Three Shifts, This Week.

I either do a lot, or very little.

In year 4, in Mrs Merrick's class she complimented me on my involvement in extra curricular activities, which, on top of class time included the orchestra (violin, hey), the recorder group (descant, but) and cross country (running). I fit it in easily, while managing to maintain all my day to day activities like paying bills, cooking, banking and catching up with some old accquaintances for a quiet schooner and pub trivia most Wednesday evenings.

Fourteen years on, and I'm struggling to even log into blogger without one of the kids hassling me to take them to the shops, or having to shoot off to watch my partner referee footy on Saturday afternoons. Maybe age has ravaged me. Having coffee with some close girlfriends last week, once we had sarcastically pored over the gossip mags then earnestly discussed David Hicks, the vile issue of time management crept into conversation.

"I s'pose our priorities have just changed," suggested Sam. "My Sunday afternoons used to involve late-brekkie, a trip to the beach, a spot of market-shopping, then dinner and drinks consistently. These days I'd rather just stay in with the paper, and spend the afternoon perfecting my bechamel sauce for a mouth-watering lasagne for Andy and the kids."

"I don't believe it's just priorities, no way," said Jules. I used to be able to dance 'til 4am Friday AND Saturday nights, then be out of bed at 8 on Sundays for Dragon-Boat Racing, and feel like a million bucks. Now the twins drag me up at 9, moaning and hungover from the two glasses of riesling I had before I fell asleep on the couch! My stomach's a mess these days as well. Too many wines and rich foods go through me like the Bondi Tram - oh god, I just showed my age again!"

Maybe it's work. Maybe itself the stress and responsibility. Maybe our bodies are passed the biological used by date that nature set, rendering us obsolete after we fulfil our requirements of creating the younger generation. As the ABC's Doctor Karl Kruszelnicki says, "every year after 25 is just a bonus."

Am I the only one who is mildly depressed at the prospect of slowly losing grip of my youth, falling under the stampeding hooves of the Ipod wielding generation Y? Or should we embrace this feeling, allowing ourselves to grow old with dignity, safely accepting that our booziest nights and wildest sex are behind us? We could spend the rest of our thirties and fourties thinking about this, or we could just settle down on the couch with the Good Weekend and a cuppa, dozing off with a stomach full of lasagne, and a tired mind that still remembers the rattle of the Bondi Tram.