Jackie McGregor: Kicking the bucket list: my sexy milestone birthday rebellion

And why did they have to involve death-defying feats? I have no memory of my parents’ attempting to scale Kilimanjaro upon turning 60.

These days the birthday cake has been swapped for the bucket list – a list of things you want to do before “kicking the bucket.”

The phrase "60 is the new 40" began in the early 2000s as views on aging shifted. With longer, healthier lives, turning 50 or 60 is now often marked with adrenaline-fueled adventures.

These birthdays also harbour the suspense of secret celebrations. There’s no harm in dropping hints; sometimes, if you don’t build the stage, the show won’t go on.

My own milestone activities? I ate my own body weight in Quality Street and yanked out a filling with a Toffee Penny. At this age; toffee eating could be deemed an extreme sport.

I examined my face and fading looks with all the tragic drama of Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard, questioned my life choices and wept quietly into a fondant fancy, while making plans to start a diet tomorrow, and begin that novel I’ve been threatening to write for the past twenty years.

I spent moments in quiet reflection on the journey to this point in my life and thought about those I’ve loved and lost along the way.

A melancholy air hung about me, until the worry of getting hooked on Werther’s Originals hit me hard. My aunt became addicted around this age; her dependency worsened with time. I’d bulk buy them for her, but she’d soon be demanding more with menace. I once tried to stage an intervention with a Fisherman’s Friend, to no avail.

Suddenly life took on a sense of urgency. I gulped, perhaps I should have jumped out of a plane in celebration?

Social media is mainly to blame for this madness. It makes us reject the common-or-garden milestone birthday party. Instead, a selfie taken doing a yoga pose against a Bali sunset, is required to prove to people online that we’re “living our best life.”

However, this milestone birthday I’ve decided I won’t be trying to prove to anyone I’m still young by ziplining over a Costa Rican rainforest, because finally, I’ve reached an age where I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks.

The doorbell interrupted my thoughts, a young delivery guy arrived with my groceries,

“I’m running late, but I thought to myself, I’ll do her first, make sure she gets her slot because, I like that wee woman,” he said.

I froze, grinning, as he wafted out on a cloud of Lynx Africa, leaving me breathless.

Great! I’m now regarded by the younger generation as a “wee woman.” What did I expect? When I was his age, I thought anyone over 40 was Care Home material.

On the bright side, if being a “wee woman” means getting preferential treatment from nice young men, I can live with that.

“Still got it!” I congratulated myself; my magnetism further enhanced by my new, deeply alluring, leopard print bootee slippers - a sexy birthday gift to myself.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, this wee woman has a sudden, overpowering urge for a Werther’s Original.