A friend of mine said the other day: ‘I don’t care what anybody says, being 40 is rotten!’ ‘But isn’t life supposed to begin …’ I began. ‘Just you wait,’ she muttered darkly. Which was quite flattering really, since I’ve been ‘about 39’ for slightly longer than strict accuracy allows. But then I’ve always believed that life is what you make it and that age is irrelevant. I go along with that wise soul who once said: ‘Try to live your life so that all the people you meet wish they were your age.’
I’m bound to admit though that my embittered friend does have a point. Not that one necessarily arises on one’s fortieth birthday with a face like a badly ploughed field and one’s arms dragging along the ground – personally, I’ve always looked a bit like that first thing anyway. No, the real trouble is that, although you may feel exactly the same, other people start treating you differently. When, for instance, you say; ‘Isn’t it a lovely morning? to your child-bride neighbour over the fence, she listens – with respect!
That’s the worst bit. To fling oneself gaily into the gabble of coffee morning conversation and have all the other mums go, ‘Shush!’ and actually listen. I can’t tell you how many times lately a chatty, inconsequential remark of mine has wobbled away into silence because I’ve suddenly realised that the others present are politely drinking in my every word out of deference to my age.
I just don’t feel like a wise old oracle yet, nor am I ready to start consciously being mature. I don’t mind trimming my sails a little – it doesn’t do to billow, either physically or mentally, once beyond one’s teens – but I don’t see why I shouldn’t go on feeling young to the very end. Even when I’m very old, I shall feel cast down if well-meaning folk imply that perhaps I should take a back seat now that I’m getting a wee bit past it. Past what? Why can’t the elderly go on doing anything they choose – short of trapeze work perhaps – for as long as they choose? It’s their world too. So, come on Gran, pin a big rose to your hat and step out in style.
The way we dress at any age can greatly affect our whole attitude to life. Our contours may change but we can still look good if shops and manufacturers will give us the styles and the sizing. No one should have to spend their latter years shuffling around in sagging grey woollies and shapeless blancmange hats.
As for me, I’d still like to be able to try on a fabulous dress from the window of our local boutique – apricot silk perhaps with the new softer, lower neckline – without wondering why the assistant is wearing that inscrutable expression. And if by some miracle it fits me and feels good, then I want, just this once, not to bump into a down-beat contemporary who has let herself go and who can’t wait to tell me that personally she hates to see mutton dressed as lamb.
I remember a rather Puritan girl saying to me once how awful it was to see women tampering with nature. Well all I can say is that by the time one reaches 40 it’s nature that starts doing the tampering. Oh yes, I know there are women with gleaming iron grey hair, tanned bare complexions and beautifully etched character line around their eyes. But, alas, for many of us it’s pepper and salt frizz, little red veins and a touch of the Dorian Greys if we don’t keep a firm eye on the magnifying mirror.
I like the story told of Marlene Dietrich, whose friend was turning grey and letting nature take its course. ‘Tell me, darling, who do you think you are helping by looking like that?’ asked the mystified Marlene. Nov there’s a lady whose looks and philosophy I’d like to emulate. Of course she does have more going for her in the way of bone structure than most of us, but I’m sure we can all find something about our person that has stood the test of time. Even if it’s only firm ear-lobes. And we can all strive to let our cheery, ageless attitude to life shine through. Above all, do let’s go on doing our own thing for as long as we feel like it.
Personally, I want to plunge into the throbbing gloom of the disco at our local club and undulate spasmodically to Elton John along with all the others. I love music with a beat and so does my husband. We’ve always enjoyed all sorts of dancing and an occasional rave-up does us good. Or it did until two fellow members in their late twenties said: ‘We must hand it to you two – you really keep up with the current scene.’ The inference being that we oldies should really be sitting well back in the merciful navy blue darkness, sipping our gin and taking our yeast tablets, watching the youngsters enjoy themselves. The way things are going I have an uneasy feeling that in a swift decade or so they’ll be all set to start making allowances for our ‘funny little ways’.
So if any other ladies of ‘about 39’ are beginning to subside wistfully into the background, then let’s start by telling ourselves firmly that Princess Grace of Monaco, Jackie Onassis, Audrey Hepburn and Sophia Loren are all contemporaries of ours – give or take a wrinkle. And I don’t see anyone grasping them by the elbow offering to help them cross the road.