Golden age
I’ve always preferred the in-betweeners to the milestones, until now.
I’ve always preferred the birthdays in-between to the milestones — the 37s and 43s that just require a drink and no reflection on one’s progress. The last milestone I celebrated was my 21st, a slap-up meal with some favourites at Swami’s Uninflated, a cheap, long-gone Indian in Newtown.
There’s not a lot to prove at 21, not much progress or reflection required. Though even off a low bar I expect I was underperforming. I’d pulled a lot of beers, trudged around Europe and acquired an obnoxious German boyfriend, but I hadn’t exactly set myself on a Direction in Life.
Nevertheless, I was young and bright-eyed and the photos attest to a beautiful, motley crew of kids, lovely and clueless. As life inevitably goes, the Direction came in its own sweet time.
When I got to 30 I’d been married just a few months. I’d had the dress and the party and the presents and the attention and my little introvert soul couldn’t have taken any more. I’d out-milestoned myself with an elegant wedding in the Rocks, the start of a good partnership that lasted a long time, though not forever.
By 40 I was in the thick of child-rearing and career-wrangling and the thought of organising a party made me want to cry. Drawing attention to the occasion would just highlight that I wasn’t as accomplished as I thought I should be — as other people were — and here I was actually getting old.
Forty was when I finally knew in my bones that ageing wasn’t only for other people. I got a permanent crease between my eyebrows and my winning smile started disappearing in the lines around my mouth. I was bombarded with ads for skin care products and slimming underwear and keeping a husband’s interest. I was mortified.
So 50 came as a welcome surprise. I wasn’t prepared for how ready I was to celebrate turning 50. Not just mark the date or reflect on my progress, but really celebrate. Through the fag end of my forties I had found myself rounding up. ‘Nearly 50’ was how I thought of myself. Then actually 50. And I dressed up and drank and danced and had my (Pimms flavoured Dolly Varden) cake and ate it too.
“You don’t look 50,” people kindly say. Or “50 is not old!” or “it’s just a number!”
The thing is, I’m happy to look 50 (you can still deny I do though). And it is kind of old and that’s what’s good about it. And sure it’s a number, but it’s more than that too. There’s a lot of shit to deal with in 50 years and to get through it all, upright, with friends around you feels like an achievement. A proper milestone.
I guess the clues were there all along that I’d suit middle age. Even that young girl at Swami’s liked her cardigans and earnest books and sensible shoes and Cottontails.
But it’s a surprise to find some relief at properly leaving youth behind. For all its joy, there’s hard work in finding — and losing and finding — one’s way in the world and building a life; 50 feels like a good rest point on the marathon, to stop and survey the paths behind and ahead (but not the online ads, which have given up on my looks and are now concerned with my continence and menopausal symptoms. Oh well.)
When I was a young girl, I remember my grandmother sighing deeply saying ‘I wish I was 50 again!’
I thought it was the most hilarious thing. 50! So old! If you were going to wish time away surely you would pick a better fantasy age.
But I get it now. For many women, 50 is when our kids have grown up or are on their way. We can get to know ourselves again, enjoy our excellent friends, draw on our hard-won inner resources, consider a new direction. We are strong and independent. And lucky.
In the photos from that funny birthday lunch at Swami’s is also my mum, with a big smile, a purple dress and patchy hair from chemo. It was our last birthday together. She didn’t make it to 50 but geez she wanted to. She dreamt of getting old in her little house in the mountains with her husband Bill. “We’ll sell honey by the side of the road with toothless smiles,” she’d say, knowing it would never happen.
My vision for old age is a little different. It includes teeth. I’ll march around in orthopaedic shoes between art galleries and writers’ festivals, cinemas, all the cafes and a little flat somewhere near the harbour.
And when I’m tired, I’ll stop and sit in the sun, sigh deeply and wish I was 50 again.
