I am
probably just as guilty as others who say “age is just a number” and then
whinge about my age. Yes, it is a number, but it still defines us all in some small
way. Doesn’t it?
I feel good
about my age; part of the whingeing comes down to not being able to do the same
things today that I could ten years ago. Such as, you ask? Well, I certainly can’t
get to the tennis ball as fast as I used to. I am sore in places I never used
to be after a few hours of gardening. My eyesight seems to change dramatically every
year and, at £200 per lens for my glasses, it’s costing me a small fortune to
keep reading the small print. And oh those £$&*(£! wrinkles—I don’t consider
myself terribly vain, but I do frown upon my frown lines.
OK, enough
whingeing! I really wanted this to be about this minor revelation I’ve had about
age, and particularly about how it relates to my family. I have two brothers
and three sisters; the number of years that separates the eldest from the
youngest is 11—from 1956 to 1967. (Yes, of course, I’m the one born in 1967).
In 2017 five of the six of us will be in our 50s, with my eldest sister just
tipping over into being a sexagenarian. I found that fact, well, not so much
shocking as a bit astounding. As in, we can’t possibly all be approaching that number . . . can we? We’re young,
we’re vibrant, we’re not middle-aged!
You don’t
always see it coming, do you? J
As a number,
age is mostly unremarkable unless you’re
reaching the Queen-will-send-a-card range. Life moves on, we all add a few
years and a few pounds. What is remarkable, though, and perhaps not a terribly
big surprise, is that the years seem to be less meaningful the older we get.
Some of my siblings have become closer as friends than we were growing up. Case
in point: the difference in seven years when you’re 17 and your little brother
is 10, is, well, huge. You have very little in common, very little reason to
travel in the same circles or have the same conversation or read the same
books; you simply don’t enjoy the same adventures. Yet, at the age of 53, having
a 46-year-old brother means we have some shared experiences and we even, gasp, have some things in common—almost unthinkable
back when I was going to my senior prom and he was, well, who knows what he was
doing; I certainly didn’t care.
I think my
recent contemplation about age has been prompted by the Facebook phenomenon
known as #TBT—Throw Back Thursday, where FB regulars post old photographs on Thursday
of themselves. I have done it, just once, finding a grammar school picture
(thanks to the 46-year-old previously mentioned). And I’ll admit to wishing I
had more photographs of when we were young, though not necessarily to post. Most
of our childhood pictures seem to have disappeared, or perhaps we just didn’t
have many, and while I have one or two cherished ones it’s not representative
of our collective childhoods as we all aged together. Even without the physical
reminder of a photograph, though, isn’t it wonderful how the yawning of the years
has diminished over time among us? Yes, I think so.
I’ll admit
to another “reality check” about my age—the arrival of and now frequent companion
to my daily life, The Hot Flush. (American readers will recognise that as Flash).
I am mostly afflicted in the evening, and I radiate a broiling temperature that
brings Tim closer in the cool nights and drives him away to his own side of the
bed when the temperature in the room is mild. I don’t blame him—I have to kick
off the duvet and turn over the pillow because the heat they absorb in those
few minutes I am exuding a scorching heat is unbearable even to me. My friend
Jill suggests not eating meat; I think that has some weight to it as (I read
that) most Japanese and Southeast Asian women don’t have vasomotor symptoms
(yes, I looked that up), and their diet is far richer in fish oils than mine.
That said,
I had a wonderful fillet steak (aka filet mignon) for dinner on Saturday night.
Well worth a bit of tossing and burning in the wee hours.
Apparently
I have a lower tolerance for small changes in core body temperature—this doesn’t
surprise me, as I’m always the first to feel the cold. I have done my own bit
of research, which is to say I Google terms
and randomly read what studies are saying and discover some natural remedies that
may help. I have started drinking more water during the day to keep myself
cooler, and dress in layers for when a jumper needs to come off, go on, come
off . . .
I have
decided that pine bark is worth a try. While a popular natural remedy, I’ve
ditched the idea of yoga. I could never get into it, possibly because I am
rather uncoordinated and too many of the yoga positions require more poise,
grace, stamina, and coordination than I could possibly muster up during an hour
session. And Hot Bikram? My goodness in my current state I’d faint to be sure,
LOL. Everything in moderation, I say. Trying to hold some balancing pose in 40
degree C temperature (quick calculation brings me to 100-ish F) is not my idea
of moderation.
Instead, I
have started Pilates again; I have always been a fan of the controlled, smooth
movement between positions, and while there are some Pilates exercises I haven’t
yet mastered—yes, ones that involve standing on one leg, knees soft, and doing
some near-impossible circles with the foot—I still enjoy the hour with the locals
in Islington who, to my joyous surprise, aren’t dressed in posh gear, have
mismatched tops and bottoms, and don’t generally give a hoot about whether they
were wearing the same kit last time. (I think this comes from joining an online
program that costs just £7 a week though you have to sign up for four sessions
at a time and it auto-renews until you cancel). I had seen a class in trendy Angel,
less than ten minutes away, for literally five
times the price, and that doesn’t include the wardrobe I’d have purchase to fit
in.
I will now
cease whingeing; I hope that wasn’t too unbearable. I am actually quite
comfortable with my “number”; in truth it is quite a nice place to be, and
particularly because I have a partner in the same bracket who finds me “nifty
at . . . .” I find, too, that I have different role models now—ones who are 10-20+ years older than me who are thoroughly enjoying life. I think to myself, much like
I did years ago in my thirties looking at an old photograph of my mother, that’s what I want to be like when
I’m her age. I do cherish my slightly older friends, some who have retired
and all who are vibrant, busy, happy, and whinge less than I do about age. They remind
me that at any age, life can be quite good. You just have to live in the
moment.
