It’s my birthday today. I’m foraaaachoooo… sorry about that. Fortaaaachooo… geez it’s dusty in here. I’m 42.
I’m not sure what 42 is supposed to feel like, but I can tell you that I went to a lunch with a bunch of ladies aged between, say, 38 and 45 a week or so ago and I felt like a spring chicken. In fact, I felt like an egg.
That is not to say that I look younger (although the persistent attractive acne probably helps), act younger (although my temper tantrum throw-downs are legendary) or even necessarily want to be younger (that is a lie). I do not (lies). But I’m just not yet ready for the blouse and sensible pant brigade. Nor the “let’s talk about the weather for half an hour” brigade. Nor the “these young people of today” brigade. No, I’m just not quite ready to give up popular culture and start pottering in the garden. Even though I really like pottering in the garden.
I never bought into the idea that you could find youth in a bottle. I think the fear of growing older makes some people’s faces look ancient. To me youth is found in new perspectives and embracing change. It’s keeping an open mind and a practicing optimism. Having enthusiasm for life, being interesting and interested and trying something new even when you’d rather not.
I guess it’s about not minding how old you are. I’m 42.
My neighbour who is not much older than myself has a bee in her bonnet (see, she wears a bonnet) about “those teenagers” who skateboard down our very-skateboardable street. How they’re loud and unsafe and shouldn’t be there. Oh, those milling youths loitering sociably on their active skateboards. Now there’s something to grow old about.
It’s fun growing up but not old, I reckon. Each year I feel like I’ve got a better grip on reality and a looser grip on material things. What’s important, what’s fun, what’s ridiculous and what really matters in the end all seem a little bit clearer. It’s like growing up backwards – the eyes might fade, but the vision becomes sharper. The hearing gets dimmer, but the listening skills brighter. (I just can’t figure out why my knees are hurting so darn much.)
Stop me if I ever turn into a mutton-dressed-as-lamb, “I’m besties with my teenage daughter” types, but I’m very keen to keep up with the latest and greatest and I don’t have a problem with the way “young people” are approaching the world around them. I embrace a different perspective to mine and the way it makes me wonder if my way is the best way after all.
So, yep, I’m happy with the birthday. I feel young and fresh and keen. I just hope those knees can keep up with me…