I turned fifty–one this year, and I’m ashamed of the shame I feel about ageing. I know how lucky I am to be healthy and safe, to have wonderful kids, to still have both my parents, to have my own home. I know all of this. It’s shameful to be this shallow. But not acknowledging the changes in our bodies and faces, and the negative effects of those changes, seems impossible to me. I keep having inspirational quotes thrust at me that say things like, “You’re never too old and it’s never too late.” Really? I wish I’d had the confidence to do things like burlesque or pole dancing when I was younger. I have the confidence now… but not the other necessary credentials. And yes, I could still go for it (and if you’re over fifty and going for it, bloody good on you!) but the music would have to be turned up extra loud for me so that every time I dropped, no one could hear the cartilage crunch in my knees. Sexy!
Last week I ordered some magic face tape that you are supposed to be able to use to create a facelift effect. It’s super strong, transparent, surgical sticky tape that you attach to the top of your cheek and hike up towards your ears, then cover with your hair. The tape made me feel worse about ageing because it didn’t work. The gravitational pull on my face is such that nothing has yet been invented that is strong enough to fight it. Stupid droopy jowls.
I know it’s pointless, ungrateful and vacuous to complain about ageing. “Age is just a number,” people say. They mean well. But it’s a lie. I know there are people I won’t be able to go out with, gigs I won’t be able to get, and experiences I won’t be able to have (unless crunchy lap dancing becomes a thing, who knows?) and I know it’s because my age is wrong. And I hate it.
The doctor keeps sending me letters and texts to book in for ’flu jabs, blood tests, a general MOT to make sure I’m not too close to death. I keep deleting them and throwing them away in anger, as though they’re a personal affront. “How dare you make me accept the inevitable consequences of time? Go away!”
I’m utterly ridiculous. I know.
At the end of last year, my eighty–five year old aunt was taken into a care home due to the effects of dementia. She has always been a formidable woman. Extremely strong opinions about topics which I won’t go into but were always definitely best avoided. Nevertheless, she was my auntie and I know she loves me very much. Or she did. I don’t know whether to refer to her in the past or present tense as she has no idea who I am now. Her behaviour has become somewhat unmanageable: she’s violent and angry all the time. I suppose she’s scared and confused. The care home posts little updates on their social media pages of activities the guests have been doing. Recently they were given “dementia dolls:” simply dolls that the guests hug and look at. The photos are sweet, and sad. Notably, there were no photographs of my auntie. I can well imagine how she reacted when handed a doll. I suspect that the poor toy met with the most vindictive and torturous of ends. I know it’s wrong to laugh… but what else are you gonna do?
Ah, ageing. Ain’t it grand?