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Ah, the sixties, the age, not the swinging decade. That dreaded biological marker that loomed before me like an ominous spectre. The mere mention of it sends a shiver down my spine, for it carries with it the weight of time and the burden of age. But, in the midst of this daunting reality, I must admit that there are certain unexpected advantages to growing older. The beauty of a sunset now holds a profound significance, a seniors discount at the movies brings a small glimmer of joy, and, if the passage of time has any value, I should possess a certain wisdom acquired through the trials and tribulations of life.

Yet, alongside these silver linings, there exists a shadow cast by the ageing process. My once vibrant metabolism has betrayed me, opting for reverse rather than forward, and I awaken to inexplicable aches and pains merely from sleeping weird. My existence can come to a screeching halt when my reading glasses, quite conveniently perched atop my head, mysteriously vanish into thin air. And… there is a hint of mortality that occasionally wafts in like smoke from a distant fire, triggered by a phone call in the middle of the night which can only mean bad news.

Permit me, my beautiful readers, to introduce my special guest, Leah McLaren. She is more than a guest. She is a three-time published author, award-winning journalist and a G&T-loving friend. And don't we all need one of those?

On Leah's invitation during the deep and dark time of Covid, I boarded a completely empty train and got my ass to a little rustic Welsh farmhouse that Leah had rented. I was attempting to write my very first book, and Leah was pounding out her latest, a poignant mother-daughter memoir, Where I End, and You Begin. "Don't talk to anyone", she warned me. "I mean it, Christina, no one." She was terrified that the Welsh villagers would take one listen to my Canadian accent and, with torches high and pitchforks at the ready, storm the farmhouse and evoke a tiny-town-terror of Covid justice.

When one generally thinks of a breakup, one often imagines a double-barrel, snot-bubbling ugly cry in a dark room, duvet pulled over head, empty ice cream containers littering the floor and lying awake in the middle of the night, imaging all the painful ways he might die. Wait, is that just me? After you have stopped crying and put down the Häagen Dazs, it might be time to reclaim your life (and power).

Most of us can relate to the crushing end of a relationship we swore would last forever. The loss of something big, the mourning of something bigger, what might have been, instead of what was. That's been the trickiest bit for me, in a way. What I thought it was going to be versus what it actually was. I think they call that dating for potential.

I am a cheater. A curious, cheating creature. I did not write the blog on dating you are about to read, Jane Austen did. Well, IA did, in the style of Jane Austen.

For those who know me, you know I am a lover of tech. I’ve been talking to Alexa for years, Google Maps is telling me how to get there, Calm lulling me to sleep, Suri answering my questions, and Find My Phone will let me know when my phone is stuck between two sofa cushions.

So when I was told about ChatGPT, I had to give it a try. And you know what, I was equal parts blown away and terrified. For those who aren’t up on the latest technology, let me explain. ChatGPT is an artificial intelligence chatbot that allows you to have human-like conversations. Think of it as if Google and Suri had a love child.

It can answer questions, write and fix code, translate, and generate content like emails, essays,…and blogs.

My first experiment with the IA master was to have it write me a complaint letter to my water company, which I believe is overcharging me. In approximately ten seconds, I had a brilliant letter with not a single word I’d have to change. No creative punctuation or spelling, which I have a propensity for.

I’m not sure if I can conjure the words to express what an unexpected, crazy journey the last few years have taken me on. My life, and in all the ways I defined it, mother, daughter, lover, boss, employer, friend, sister and Hunter’s human, were all changed, reimagined or permanently altered for good. In short, without these labels that I had dressed myself in, I had no idea who I was. None.

It’s funny when you are presented with change. At first, you resist it, much like getting that suspicious mole checked or online dating. You push hard against it and do whatever you can to make it stop or, at the very least, slow it down. Change can be terrifying. But as we know, change is the only constant in our lives. So the question is not “will this change” but rather, “what are you going to do with the changes?”

Me, I wrote a book.

It's interesting in life how many times we reinvent. Our bodies are cellular different every seven years, so science tells us. So, in essence, a brand new you. We've often had several careers, and don't get me started on the vast array of "loves of my life" I have fallen in and out of love with. I have had many, many lives, and every one of them was extraordinary, varied and ripe with lessons.

In my early twenties, I had a career in the glitzy cosmetic retail industry, and then I spent over a quarter century deep in the world of advertising and production. Hell, I even produced a feature film that opened TIFF. I moved countries and pretty much shed most of the labels that defined who I was to the world and, truthfully, to me as well. This isn't some sort of right-to-brag CV but rather an introduction to my thinking that anything is possible when no one tells you no.

Unless you are living completely off the grid, with no access to the internet or Google Alerts, you have been recently flooded with a plethora of red-hot stories, gifted to us by Harry and Meghan, the Duke and Duchess of Sussex. The Oprah interview, the Netflix docu-series/reality show and most recently, Harry’s tell-all book, The Spare. The media, with a frenzy equal to newly hatched turtles rushing to the ocean, have been diving into those waters to digest, dissect, discuss, judge, condemn and regurgitate every last word. Like so many of us, I have officially reached my peak, my saturation level of Sussex consumption. So I swore I wasn’t going to write about it. The war of The Sussexes.

But something happened to me last week, twice, in fact, that has led me to keep this dialogue going.

Not one, but two friendly, white tablecloth dinners, out with intelligent friends, metamorphized into a full-out, drag ‘um down bar fight debate about the most polarising subject in the UK since Brexit, Harry and Meghan. I am not interested in highlighting the obvious conflicts of one of the world’s most famous dysfunctional families or once again discussing the “rivalry, jealousy and competing agendas” between Harry and his wife, the Sussexes, and Prince William and Kate, the Cambridges. The proverbial “they said/the Monarch said.” You can buy the book. Nor do I want to talk about Oprah, the Netflix series, or Harry’s “frost-bitten todger” (cringe).

Aaaah, the mature woman. That fabulous creature that, if wooed with the right balance of precision and passion, might be the best sex you have ever had. You heard me—the best.

With a real risk of oversharing, sex over 50 is the culmination of decades of learning. I cannot speak for my married sisters, those women who’ve been having sex with the same partner who has been leaving the toilet seat up and the tea bag in the sink for years. But I can speak for the single ladies who have graciously and generously shared their fabulous, unfiltered sex stories with me.

Let’s get started. Encase there is a guy out there over the age of fourteen that doesn’t know this, women share everything. Yes, all of it. We talk in delicious, delightful details…about… well…all of it. If you are wondering, did she tell her girlfriend about…insert worst fear here*, the answer is, of course, she did. And they probably told their friends. I believe that is why women live longer, by talking it out. Sure you guys talk too. But it’s different, more surface, singular, simple and summarized. An uncomplicated “ya, I shagged her…um, dude, I think it’s your round.”

The Mean Season… Grrrrr!!!

For those who don't know, the Mean Season is what I call that brutal time of year between American Thanksgiving and Valentine's Day. For most of the English-speaking world, we are enduring the cold, bitter elements of winter. The days are impossibly short but feel twice as long as you go to work in the dark and come home in the dark. And, for the blessed life of you, you can’t remember the last time you saw the sun. But the harsh, relentless weather is the least of it, it is merely the backdrop. With all its festive holiday parties, family gatherings and the general outpouring of love and mirth, the Mean Season is the most challenging time of the year to be single or alone.

Ever since Demi Moore was wrapped up tightly for eight years with Ashton Kutcher, sixteen years her junior, I have been fascinated by the older woman/younger man scenario. Of course, we as a society see that age flip with older men/younger women all the time, which barely warrants a raised eyebrow, and I, for one, am so bored of it (yawn). But back in the early 2000s, with Demi and Ashton, their coupling was as rare as a rainbow-coloured unicorn. Now, sure, Demi is not your average 9 to 5, Walmart shopping, monthly book club, carpooling gal (ok, that might not be average either). Back in the day, she was what the media would describe as Hollywood Royalty, a crowned Princess of the celebrity Brat Pack. Perhaps Ashton was just a pendulum swing from Demi's ex Bruce Willis eight years her senior, but if so, I say nicely done, Demi.

Two decades later, this off-beat relationship dynamic has become way more popular despite the social stigma amplified by popular media and the concept of "cougar and toyboy."

A few examples.

We, as a generation, have never looked better. We eat healthier and use something other than Noxema and Ten-O-Six (brown-tinged rubbing alcohol) to clean our skin. We are acutely aware of the dangers of sun exposure, pushing many of us to richly slather our faces with a daily, solid SPF 50.

And, of course, science has allowed us to mask our age with tightening, lasering and injecting, and I, for one, say giddy-up.

But as I hang with my daughters, their friends, and others who fall into that "just a tad younger than me' category, there is something other than my neck and my well-moisturised, taunt complexion that gives my age away… and this is what I am writing about today. The little things that immediately tell everyone you are over 50 that even the best plastic surgeons can't help you with.

So let's see if you fall into this category.

Ah, Istanbul. A city where you're just as likely to get run over by a motorcycle on the sidewalk as you are crossing the street. It was my first trip to Turkey, and I wasn't quite sure what to expect. I had visions of Agatha Christie's Murder on the Orient Express mixed in with a smattering of Midnight Express. And fortunately for me, it was nothing like the latter. The city's soundtrack is a melody of street vendors barking their wares, a constant "lady, lady, lady", mingled in with the blasting of car horns, all punctuated with the haunting, melodic Call to Prayer five times a day. Istanbul is an exciting mix between ancient and modern. Opulent luxury pushed hard against the hustling assault of markets selling spices, handbags, kababs and rugs.