Act Your Age

My Dad turned sixty last week. Well done, Happy Birthday, etc, etc. But, because people can be a mildly cruel the event was marked by a collection of cards mocking his age, suggesting an infirm body and mind. When he took the dog for a walk in the morning my Mum, apparently, warned him against falling over “at his age.” It’s almost as though, despite no indication of retiring or slowing down, he went to bed middle-aged and woke up old.

Which reminds me…

Years ago I sat in the corner at a party. It was that time a little after midnight when the booze lurches in with a kick of sentimentality and the music sounds infinitely more poignant that it will do in the morning. The guy I’m talking to takes a slurp of lager and turns to me saying: “Man, do you remember when we were fifteen? Wasn’t it great? We had no responsibilities, life was easy. I’d give anything to be fifteen again.”

Seeing as we hadn’t even turned eighteen at this point, yes I did remember. I have no idea what possible difficulties or stresses he was imaging, but I had utterly zero desire to go back. I’ve always been pretty pleased with the age I am. There’s nothing you can do about it anyway, so sitting whinging about how being twenty-one was so great does nobody any favours.

Live with life or do something about it.

I don’t mean build a time machine or invent a rejuvenation pill (although both would be cool), I mean that if you’re unhappy with your age it probably means there’s something in your life that you’re unhappy with. Your job, perhaps, where you live, how you live. It’s probably something you can sort out.

Anyway, irritated by this pillock, on the walk home that night I developed my theory on the ages of human kind. It was meant to be a joke, but when I told Beck about it shortly afterwards she was annoyed that I’d classified her sister as middle-aged already. And because it became an argument (of sorts) it stuck around in my head.

It went something like this:

You’re born, you’re a baby, a toddler and then a child. From thirteen to eighteen you’re a teenager. From nineteen to twenty-nine you’re a young adult. From thirty to fifty-five you’re middle aged. From fifty-five to seventy you’re old. Finally seventy and over and you’re elderly. These are the facts of live, deal with them.

Of course, they’re not. Instead, they’re just the arrogant shoutings of a seventeen year old. I found it funny that middle-age was a spoken with such derision, that the young feared it so. To me it was just part of life; it’s the middle-period of your three score and ten life allowance and is consequently the longest part. The decision as to what you with that period of your life, whether you settle down to slippers and the occasional glass of red wine in front of the gas fire or if you work the trans-Siberian railway as an engine driver is up to you.

Regrets for yesterday are pointless; all that matters is tomorrow.

That said, I’m seriously considering revising my definitions. Beck turns thirty later this year, I the next. Do I consider myself middle-aged? In a part of my head I’m still a teenager, I’m still directionless (Writer? Come on, stop mucking about and sort yourself out with a proper career!), still prone to irresponsible bouts of drinking, still desperate to hear youth music, still a little naively idealistic.

Mind you: Saturday night was exciting. We did some work on the Save The Livesey campaign, ate some dinner. Listened to records by Tom Waits, David Bowie and Neil Young and read our books. Beck went to bed just before eleven, I went up a little after midnight.

Bloody hell, we’ve skipped middle-age entirely and we’re old already.

Beck said to me that she hadn’t done any of the major things that she’d always planned to do before she turned thirty. Namely, have a baby, establish herself as an artist and buy a house.

But these are just the stereotypes of what we should have achieved. Property, career, breeding. We’ve done lots of other things instead.

Okay, so we nearly brought a flat twelve months ago and I’m damn pleased that we didn’t. I couldn’t have done my course, seeing as I’m using the deposit money to survive, and with mortgage repayments being significantly higher than our low rent and having no savings left to act as a cushion she wouldn’t have been able to spend nearly three months out of the country last year.

She does have a career as an artist. She’s ahead of most of her contemporaries and there are more shows coming up this year. She’s not a household name, but then she doesn’t film people buggering animals nor pee in a little pot and place it on a mantelpiece.

A baby before you’re thirty? Well, there’s just about time to sort that one out. Shall we go upstairs?

Heh. Just joking. Well, not entirely.

But why do we expect people to be in a certain position by the time they reach a certain age? I guess, in my idle daydreams, I expected to have achieved something by the time I was thirty. I’d have a couple of novel published, I’d have a nice house in the country somewhere (this is before I fell in love with London) and I’d have a couple of sprogs. But I haven’t and it’s no good worrying about it. Things happen when they’re good and ready to.

Besides, it’s always nice to have something to look forward to.

The phrase Act Your Age seems entirely redundant now as it becomes more and more acceptable to act whatever age you feel like from day to day. Responsibly settled and concerned about the environment on Tuesdays, hedonistic and looking for the nastiest party on a Thursday?

Suits me. For a little longer anyway.