. . . on ageing
HAND ON 40-YEAR-OLD HEART, I don’t really have any issues with growing older. In lots of ways being middle-aged suits me better than the teen years or the 20s ever did. For example, I always preferred sitting down while socialising: finally I am of an age where I don’t feel the slightest bit guilty grabbing a chair at the earliest opportunity. I mean I wouldn’t take one from someone who really needed it but if you are not pregnant, or on crutches, or if your name isn’t Michael D, I’m taking that seat. Sometimes I even emit a little “aaahh” sound as I make contact with the chair.
I was at an event last year where there was a fireplace incorporating a place to sit down; fender seats you call them, apparently. I’ve been saving up for a set ever since. That was where I perched for most of the party, pretty much on top of a roaring fire, engaging with whoever happened to sit down next to me. I had a fascinating conversation with another seated woman about life in a Dublin boarding school in the 1960s. One word summary: grim.
It has come as a huge relief to me that, so far, anyway, I don’t appear to have any Peter Pan tendencies. We all know men and women who make it their life’s work to hold back the years, pretending 40 is the new 30 and 50 is really 40 in disguise and 60 is the new 27. On balance I am probably anti-growing up but pro-growing older.
Ageing is happening whether you are stuffing your face with sweet potato puree in a high chair or making new friends on a fender seat. So enjoy.
I was thinking about this as I got ready to judge a semifinal of The Irish Times debating competition, when I noticed that my grey roots were showing. Now, I wouldn’t normally care that much, but a friend had recently gifted me with a little magic stick that covers roots and it was at the bottom of my bag so I decided to try it out. Five minutes later, instead of grey roots I had sticky roots that looked like they’d been pasted down with glue. It’s probably my fault. The instructions were in French.
At our annual afternoon tea last year (when you are 40 you can admit to having an annual afternoon tea without caring if it sounds geriatric) the friend who gave me the magic stick arrived at the Westbury Hotel in snow boots. It was a sign of being older, she said, when you started defiantly choosing comfort over style. We talked about noticing that plucked hairs are suddenly grey and how every time you feel hot, you wonder if it’s the beginning of the menopause.
I looked around the Westbury and saw all these elegant older women, accessorised in that effortless, understated way. There was a time when I assumed one day I would become one of these women. And I laughed, for the first time realising if it hadn’t happened by now, it never would. I laughed because rather than our age-related conversation being depressing, it was full of joy. I made a mental note that growing older was just another subject to laugh about.
But back to the debate. On a damp night in Cork, the motion was “That this house believes feminism has run its course”. The varied arguments took in the hotness of Ryan Gosling, the horrors of female genital mutilation and quotations from that well-known feminist Saddam Hussein. The night was engaging, informative and entertaining. Until we got to the judging.
I had taken pages of notes while listening to the impressive speakers, but as soon as I gathered with the other judges, I realised I was completely out of my depth. Without exception the other judges (all past debating luminaries in their 20s) seemed able to recall, without notes, the exact gist of what every speaker had said and offer a scarily articulate speech on the merits of their arguments. I sat there flicking through my notes, trying to keep up and every so often wondering, Is it menopausal in here or is it just me? I offered a few thoughts, but most of them had to be preceded with questions such as, “Was she the one in the lacy dress?”
They were kind, as one would be to a middle-aged lady with sticky roots who is a bit slow on the uptake, but I’ve never been more relieved to leave a room.
Sitting down (aahhh) in An Spailpín Fanach later, there was more of a level playing field. I held my own in a postdebate pub discussion on feminism. I put in my two cent about whether the debaters should head to a house party or stay in the pub. The pub of course! More seating! Then it all unravelled again when I pointed out one of my fellow debaters was a dead ringer for the 1980s actor Andrew McCarthy.
“Who?” a barrage of voices demanded.
You know. Andrew McCarthy. Pretty In Pink?
“What?” they roared.
You know, Mannequin?
“Huh?” they puzzled.
Then they googled McCarthy on their phones and found screen shots from Mannequin. Hand on 40-year-old-heart I don’t have any issues about getting older. Except when I have to explain how a film about a man falling in love with a mannequin that comes to life at night is essential viewing. At these times growing older seems tiresome. Yet still funny. Sticky roots, hot flush funny.
In other news . . .
For a quirky take on the feast of forced romance, head to Speaking Suppers at the United Arts Club in Dublin on Tuesday night at 7.30pm, where you will be given a three-course meal and gentle encouragement to speak briefly in front of an appreciative audience. The topic for the evening is, astonishingly, love. Tickets, €40, from speakingsuppers.com.