One of the inspirational quotes that the algorithms often see fit to annoy me with is, “You’re never too old, and it’s never too late.” It’s a lovely sentiment… I know. But if we’re being honest, I think that needs at least a couple of caveats: things like,“ apart from…” or “unless you want to….”
So, for example, “You’re never too old and it’s never too late unless you want to be a dancer at Stringfellow’s.” Because—call me cynical, or ageist,—but I don’t remember years ago (in my twenties and early thirties) seeing women who did burlesque dancing, pole dancing, or lap dancing, and thinking, “Those women look so powerful, so in control, so strong, so sexy—I wish I had the confidence to do that.” No way would I have had the confidence at that age, though. I’ve got the confidence NOW… but no one wants me to do it. (As an aside, if anyone would like to pay me to dance for them, naked or otherwise, I’m happy to chat. I’m having to think about moving house because my mortgage payments are now so out of control and if I can fix that situation with a slut drop and a couple of nipple tassels, mate, I’m 100% in. I might need you to help me get up but we can discuss the finer details when we cross that bridge when we come to it.)
I can’t help thinking that I might be “too old” and it might be “too late for me to try certain things. Well, not to try them—obviously you can try anything you want to… but to be good at something, or to have the time to become good at it, to be successful at it, you’ve got to have time on your side; you’ve got to be young.
Most days I just can’t shake the nagging feeling that somehow, I’ve missed the boat. You see others around you, some younger, some older, who seem to have it all figured out, a you can’t help but wonder, “Have I missed my chance?” Especially working in “the entertainment industry” (I feel such a fraud saying that) but there is a sense that if you didn’t start performing as a foetus and then get a standing ovation on BGT at the age of 5 then you’re wasting your time. (I’m exaggerating, but I am veery often the oldest person in a green room with the fewest years of experience and every aspect of that makes me cringe). I know that there are comedy performers older than me but they started when they were sooo much younger which means they’ve earned the respect of their peers to still be there. Here’s me, hobbling in after a million years of doing all those other jobs, desperate to feel appreciated, valued, “respected for my art” (okay, that might be pushing it a bit) but I constantly worry that it’s simply too late now. I wish I was twenty or thirty something. I want more time: time to practise, time to get stuff wrong… and to be able to do a four–hundred mile round trip without feeling fucking exhausted and shellshocked for forty–eight hours afterwards. Christ, I gigged in Dorset last week. Lyme Regis. Stunning, stunning part of the world. So beautiful. I could see the sea from the green room, and the gig went really well. It was all bloody lovely. But I live in the Midlands. I took me three and a half hours to drive there, then coming back there were a load of motorway closures so it took even longer and blah, blah, blah… basically, it killed me and I thought, if I were twenty years younger, surely this would be easier? I’m permanently knackered!
But no–one is forcing me to do this! No–one is holding a gun to my head. And yet, for some reason, I feel as though I’ve got to prove something. And I’ve no idea who to! Just to myself, I think. Other people my age are talking about retiring or only having a couple of mortgage payments left… that’s not where I’m at! I think what I’d love to do is that stereotypical middle aged woman thing of just selling up and buying a camper van. Follow the call of the wild! But because I’ve adopted every waif and stray going over the past few years, it’s not really an option. Me, four cats, and an enormous smelly dog travelling the nation probably isn’t gonna work. Plus, I really like showers and central heating so I’ll just have to keep doing what I’m doing. I worry that twenty years from now I’ll still be going, “If I can just get the Glee to give me a spot on a Saturday night… I’ll feel like I’ve cracked it,” and having more Botox and filler than ever injected in the hope people with think I’m sixty something rather than seventy something. Madness.
Apparently,—according to a study by the Kauffman Foundation ( I know, I actually do research into this stuff),—people aged fifty–five to sixty–four are more likely to start a new business than those in their twenties or thirties. I guess that’s a reminder that success knows no age limit? But then my research also tried to comfort me by telling me about Colonel Sanders, the founder of Kentucky Fried Chicken. He didn’t achieve his breakthrough success until he was sixty–two. If that’s the best we can come up with then I’m fucked, really. I don’t have a secret recipe or eleven herbs and spices, or whatever it is.
I know that dwelling on the past won’t change anything and that what matters is how we choose to move forward or reinvent ourselves or however you want to look at it—which is sailing dangerously clos to the “never too late” stuff—“your age does not define your potential.” But I keep coming back to the fact that, well, it does, a bit, at least. I talk about all of this and more in my podcast, Avoid Excessive Cleavage.
Image: Hourglass © Christos Giakkas, Wounds and Cracks. Reproduced under licence from Pixabay.