Who says ageing gracefully can’t come with a side of sarcasm?

They say laughter is the best medicine, though I’d argue that medicine rarely gives you crow’s feet. Still, if a few smile lines are the price of a good laugh, I’ll happily pay up. Ageing has its moments, but it also comes with a well-earned ability to find humour in things we once took far too seriously.

Somewhere in my 40s, humour stopped being optional. It became a daily dose of perspective — far more effective than spiralling. Not because life gets easier but because we finally get the joke. And more often than not, it’s on us.

Like accidentally texting my dentist instead of my daughter. Or walking into the kitchen three times before remembering I was meant to be putting the kettle on. Or opening a new beauty product and realising I now need a headlamp and tweezers just to read the label. 

These little moments used to get under my skin. 

Now? I mentally file them under ‘comic relief’.

And no, I’m not suggesting laughter replaces eight hours of sleep, emotional support, or a moisturiser that actually understands mature skin. All non-negotiables in my eyes. 

But humour has a way of smoothing what serums can’t. It lightens what threatens to feel heavy. It reminds us not to take every wrinkle — or every opinion — to heart.

There’s a particular freedom that comes with ageing. Not just in what we say or wear, but in how we see ourselves. I no longer feel obliged to leave the house looking “done.” But when I do, it’s for me, and me only. A touch of makeup that knows how to play nicely with mature skin, a sweep of mascara — just enough to lift the mood, and the mirror. Not to erase anything. Just to honour it.

And yes, there are days the mirror reveals more texture than I remember. 

But instead of spiralling, I tap on a touch of concealer that works with my mature skin, tilt my head, and smile — the kind that says, “Yeah, go on. We’re doing just fine.”

Because really, a few laugh lines are a small price to pay for a life well lived — and well laughed.

That’s the shift. I’m not chasing youth. I’m here to enjoy what I’ve grown into. And if I can do that while laughing with friends, trading voice notes full of sarcasm, or losing the plot mid-sentence (with flair, of course), even better.

Humour does more than lighten the mood. It grounds us. It connects us. To our bodies, our lives, and to the women walking beside us. We compare notes on sleep, hormones, and the latest skincare and makeup that promise to work with mature skin — not against it.

We laugh. We lift each other. And we carry on.

Ageing might come with creaks and quirks, but it also comes with the best punchlines. And the confidence to laugh loud, especially when no one else gets the joke.

Because in the end, it’s not about staying young. It’s about staying you. And if you can meet your reflection with a wink and a grin? That’s ageing well, by any standard.