I read an article in The Spectator today about how dreadful it was to pass forty. OK, it was written by a woman, and, apparently, for many women, ageing is a more significant event than for us men.
I have never really taken much notice of my age. Many friends and family say I often don’t act my age. The first time I remember commenting about my age was when I turned thirteen. I was a teenager now! I didn’t dwell on it; it was just something I tossed out in a conversation with a friend on the way to school after the Christmas break (my birthday is in early January). Like most teenagers, I couldn’t wait to be eighteen, as I could do most of the things I wanted to do legally, like going to the pub. Twenty-one was no big deal, as it has little significance anymore. I bought a house, got married, and had kids. I remarked in my early thirties that I didn’t want to be an ‘old’ dad. I wanted to have all the children before I was forty. In the event, my youngest son came along when I was thirty-five.
At forty, my life saw massive changes. I got divorced, remarried and moved overseas in my early forties for a few years. When I returned in my early fifties, it was to a different part of the country, so was like yet another fresh start in many ways. Passing sixty was a non-event. I can’t even remember what I did on the day. I wouldn’t bother celebrating birthdays anyway if it was left to me. My wife likes to do something, such as go out for a meal. I always make a point of taking her out on her birthday, but I don’t care about my own.
On a day-to-day basis, though, I don’t give much thought to my age. My body complains a bit sometimes, but I am generally free of aches and pains. I don’t stay up late much anymore, although I was quite the night bird for many years. In my head, I’m still around twenty-five. I certainly don’t feel like I’m in my sixties. I guess when I was younger, people of my current age seemed old. For the most part, they seemed to act old, be serious, often dour, moody, moaning about all their illnesses and complaining about draughts and noise, the younger generation, and how civilised society was breaking down. Yes, I complain about the nation’s state, but I always have. I’m cynical about leaders, but again, I always have been. It’s not traits that I’ve adopted as I have gotten older. I like a lot of new music, and I’m not stuck in the past, playing an endless menu of songs from my teenage years. Yes, I like the old stuff, but there’s always something new to enjoy. About five years back, I got dragged somewhat unwillingly to a nightclub. I actually enjoyed myself once I got in there. I didn’t get any comments or funny looks that I was aware of, and I did get up on the dance floor.
I guess the next big event will be retiring. Sitting here thinking about it, the years really have sped by. It doesn’t seem five minutes ago that I was walking to school on that January morning when I turned thirteen.
I read an article in The Spectator today about how dreadful it was to pass forty. OK, it was written by a woman, and, apparently, for many women, ageing is...
