Age is in the eye of the beholder

Age is a tricky thing to get your head round. From the age of about 25 onward I’ve never quite believed that I was as old as my birth certificate. Although I have to be honest, it’s looking pretty shopworn by now. As you get older, birthdays start to take you by surprise. Not another one already, you think. Where did that year go? At 40 we can’t quite accept that our youth is behind us.  By 65, we’re convinced that we’re far too young to be collecting our pension. Will I still be convinced I’m middle-aged when I’m 80? Delusion is rife. And such a comfort.

Children fully inhabit their age – when they’re five they embrace their five-year-old life, while longing for their next birthday so that they can be six. It wasn’t until the age of 25 that it struck me that I was growing older and dustier with each year and that this might not be entirely desirable. I was very conscious that I’d reached a quarter of a century, which sounded quite venerable to me, and naturally I wanted to go up in a balloon both to celebrate and to compensate. I never did and still haven’t. Maybe that’s how I’ll celebrate my three-quarter-century birthday. When I’ll be truly venerable.

Now that I’m in my 60s, I don’t feel any different than I did 10 or 20 years ago, but I look different and people treat me differently. Young people here are enormously kind and it’s not unusual to be offered a seat on the train or the London tube. I can’t deny that it’s very nice to be able to sit down on a crowded train, but it does make me feel a bit washed up. Like I’ve reached my dotage. Just yesterday a young woman insisted that I take her seat on the train and I felt such a fraud because only the day before I’d spent an hour at the gym. But it’s churlish to refuse and I sat there full of conflicting emotions: guilt because I really didn’t need her seat, warm feelings at the kindness of strangers and a slight sadness to think that I’ve joined the ranks of the elderly.

I think I need to reframe my thoughts. It’s hard to accept that your outward appearance is entirely at odds with the way you feel, but I can remember how I viewed older people when I was young. When I met my future in-laws for the first time, I thought they were positively ancient. Now that I think about it, they were only in their 50s, but I probably would have stood up for them on a train. Although in my mind I’m still that young woman, dancing around at a Blondie concert, I know that in reality only about 10% of the world’s population is over 60, putting me undeniably at the top end. I am part of a select, but very fortunate group.

I have decided that acceptance is everything. All I can do is keep going to the gym and take the seats so graciously offered by the other 90% of the population.