Lauren Mabbett ponders whether it’s a midlife crisis that drove her to getting a tattoo for the first time at 38, or is it her insatiable zest for life? Perhaps just a questionable obsession with Wayne’s World.

According to Google, 40 through 60 are the years we are likely to suffer a midlife crisis, but I've never been one to follow the crowd, so I think I'm gonna have one at 38.

As I watch my fellow 38ers meet their partner, buy a house, get married or have kids, I go and book myself in for my first ever tattoo.

Tossing around ideas with a friend after three too many glasses of wine (the way only the best ideas are created, right?) I message my tattoo artist buddy and lock in an appointment for the following Friday. 

“What did you want to get?” she asks.

Of course most people get something incredibly significant or heartfelt; a date of birth, a symbol that means a lot, the name of a family member...

“Wayne from Wayne's World,” I reply.

Oh great, is this a midlife crisis? Probably, although the fact I still drive around with my CD wallet on the floor of my car suggests maybe I never grew up in the first place.

Look, in my defence, I’ve loved this movie since its release in ‘92. I've dressed up as Wayne for many a dress-up party, I have the cups and the t-shirts, I’ve visited every possible filming location as well as detouring my two last American roadies to include Aurora, Illinois where it’s set, and Delaware – the butt of a joke during the movie. When it comes to getting something on my body that’s gonna be there forever, it was only right. If anything I should be happy I didn't cave during the tramp stamp era.

I think subconsciously the changes began earlier this year, when I thought back to how 20-year-old me would spend the weekend drumming in a rock band at bars, with dyed black hair, feeling so cool, and here I was spending the weekend pushing back my cuticles and having a slice at the garden centre café.

So far this year I’ve dyed my hair black again and bought an electric drum kit. Not sure I'm feeling cool enough yet though, hence the tattoo. 

I've noticed myself increasingly referencing “the good old days” of the Strand in Tauranga. 

Remember when you’d don your “jeans and a nice top” then head out to Krazy Jacks, Grumpy Mole, and Bahama Hut? You wanted to go to Beach Street but it was such a long walk all the way up Devonport Road so you ended up at Harringtons instead. Sigh.

It was a fun, carefree time where, instead of cutting out dairy and nightshades because your nearly 40-year-old tummy doesn't like them anymore, you ate that dirty 3am pie from Snackarama and bloody loved it. (Still can't figure out why we all have gut issues now.)

The amount of tasks we need to accomplish to feel like we aren't disgusting as we get older is ridiculous. Creams and serums, beauty appointments, tweezing and shaving areas that didn't previously have hair encroaching on them.

In our 20s we could bang on some cargo pants and an army singlet, wipe your face with some Dream Matte Mousse and leave the house looking gorgeous for the day. During my 30s, every year I’ve had to add another ingredient to my face to make it look somewhat acceptable. I’ve given laser companies hundreds of dollars to make me look like a hairless cat, and I’ve had more cameras inside me than the Love Island villa.

Growing old is a part of life, of course, but as cliché as it sounds, you're only as old as you feel. As I drive around cranking my Killing Heidi CD, I think to myself: Physically I’m 38, but mentally I’m 23 (despite increasingly discovering a new line on my face that I swear wasn’t there yesterday).

So get that tattoo, wear those jeans and a nice top, and party on.

Listen to Lauren weekdays 9am to 3pm on The Hits 95.0FM.