Hello again. Last week I took an unexpected break due to a surfeit of Easter eggs, but this week I have been pondering getting older, something all of us do all of the time whether we like it or not.
Babies don’t notice it happening. They happily drool and put inappropriate things in their mouths with no idea that in a few years’ time they’ll be feeding themselves, walking unaided and making their wishes known by an ingenious form of communication called talking. By the time they’re three, they’ll know they used to be babies who couldn’t do anything interesting or useful, whereas now they can sing, dance, draw on walls and jump up and down on a parent’s bed at stupid o’clock in the morning. They don’t tend to look too far into future because they are immersed in the now.
By the time they’re eight, they’ll realise how babyish they were at three. They couldn’t write, read, wipe their own behind or be left alone to play with friends without someone keeping an eye on them. Eight year olds know they’re going to get older, potentially an exciting prospect as it means that one day they might become a premier league footballer or an influencer. Anyone in their late teens is a grown-up, and anyone over thirty is over the hill.
By the time these children reach their twenties, they’re preoccupied with adult things, like work, money and sex. Some start settling down, others still live in the moment letting the future go hang. Old age seems a long way off so if there is any planning, it’s short to medium term and old people (possibly anyone over forty) are to be admired as inspirational role models or pitied for being dull.
Next, the thirties. Some will continue partying as if they’re still in their twenties, but for many this is a stage of life is dominated by the presence or absence of children. The thirties still have energy, but (especially if they have kids) they feel tired more often than they used to, and aren’t averse to a quiet night in front of the telly. They console themselves with the knowledge that they’re a lot more resilient than they were when they were younger, and that their best years are still ahead of them.
The forties are the decade of maturity. They’ve lived long enough to have learnt a thing or two about life but are increasingly aware of the passage of time. They read articles about staying in shape, making the most of life and ageing well. They still have time to reinvent themselves, but cling on to the illusion that in twenty years’ time they’ll be exactly the same as they are now, or possibly better because of said articles.
Rather than encouraging people to live every day as if it were their last, maybe we should urge them to live every day as it was their first.
Ah, say the fifties, these youngsters don’t know how easy they have it. Now in the second half of their lives and contemplating the future with ambivalence, they hope for twenty or thirty more years of active, meaningful life, but pay attention to the latest medical advances, just in case. They’re on the precipice of decline but prefer not to look into the abyss.
Then come the sixties and seventies. A sizeable minority bang on about how wonderful it is to grow older, usually those in excellent health, but many become more and more peripheral to society (unless they’re about be king or seeking re-election as president). In their head they’re still in their twenties but their bodies tell them otherwise. This is the time when asking ‘How are you’ leads to a long list of medical complaints and procedures upcoming or recently completed.
The eighties and nineties are blessed with perspective and cursed by irrelevance. Time is running short and memories are running long. It’s easier to remember their first day at school than the name of the school next door. Organs are failing and friends are dying. They’re applauded for anything they can still do as long as they’re allowed to do it the way they always did. People seek them out for the secret of long life. Whisky, says one. Plain food, says another. Good genes, says a third. We’re fascinated by longevity because we don’t like the alternative.
A strong sense of mortality generally hits in midlife, and for some, sadly, even younger, and increases until the final years. The life we thought infinite is finite. The end may be peaceful or painful, sudden or slow, but it will come no matter how hard we try to avoid it. ‘Did you hear that so-and-so died?’ we say, but unless so-and-so was integral to your life, you’ll be faux sad for a minute or two because it is sad that people die, but it’s not nice to be reminded it’s your fate too.
Rather than encouraging people to live every day as if it were their last, maybe we should urge them to live every day as it was their first.
PS No newsletter next Sunday, so I’ll see you back here in two weeks’ time.
taking it all on board living each day as if it were my first ..... as Norma Cullen failed to turn up at my 50th birthday party as instructed and shoot me with a gun I am still going getting wrinklier and more and more diabetes diagnoses physical wear and tear and mental degeneration remind me to send you "puss cat" my very favourite book so long lost but found again ..... cats are so much better than humans
So true ... so sad ... but so true ...