Why do people who are, let’s just say hypothetically speaking, around the age of 48, frequently say they’re 50 or “almost 50” when they’ve actually still got two years to go?
It’s as if, when an age ending in zero looms close, we grab hold of it early so we have time to get used to the idea of being that big age, just in case when the big moment actually arrives we spontaneously combust.
So there I am recently, out with two girlfriends having a gorgeous dinner and we could have been discussing lofty world issues or flirting with the waiters, but instead we were talking about what was now the most appropriate mode of dress for women of a certain age, that is, women who are “almost 50”.
Was it OK to still shop at Sportsgirl? Did we need to chop off all our hair now the age of grey bobs was nigh? Should we give the skinny jeans to the Salvos?
But wait, we said. Let’s not start stocking up on ash blonde hair rinses and beige chinos just yet.
Because each of us still has around 700 days left of our 40s, if all goes to plan. And who needs to write a couple of years off by leaning into 50?
Some would say better to lean in than to submit to “Fear of 50”, a growing social malaise that manifests itself, mostly once you arrive at 45, in an inability to remember or say your age out loud or to celebrate a birthday without saying something gruff like “who the hell is counting?”
I’m suffering a bit of it at the moment, because I know some things just can’t be faked once I reach the half-century, certainly not in the way that a hot frock and a new lipstick might have helped when I was closer to 40, or 16 leaning in to 20.
It’s also impossible, at this age, to drink wine without a soda chaser, to get up off a chair without making a noise, to do a somersault or move my legs in a manner that some people might call running. I am feeling as old as I am getting.
But if 40 was the humungous mountain of a milestone year that needed to be conquered, then 50 is a whole 10 years past that and 10 years closer to standing around a piano at an old folks’ home. In the end, though, 40 didn’t hurt nearly as much as I had expected.
The pain was in waiting for it and what followed, which was the bald-faced fact that the clock doesn’t stop once a dreaded birthday milestone is reached. It just keeps on ticking and, before you know it, you’re 45 and heading towards 50 and no one is getting any better looking or picking up any extra brain cells after that milestone has passed.
When my own parents turned 50 they seemed so old, as did I, who was self-sufficient enough to chip in for the canapés at the party.
But what I didn’t know then was my dad had only nine more years to go. That he wouldn’t see 60, or his grandkids. So I guess if we’re all lucky enough to make 50 we should be crossing our dear little wrinkly fingers that 60 comes in due course, and that goddamn clock keeps on ticking away.
