I always thought I’d got away with it. The ageing process. When I entered my 40s I braced myself for the wrinkles to manifest, the love of gardening to suddenly awaken in me, the urge to spend a fortune on clothes at M&S.
But no, at 43, the gods have smiled on me. I still dress like a student, sporting baggy jeans and Adidas trainers, my ponytail swinging with my step. My holidays still include trekking up mountains and dancing until dawn. My hair isn’t greying (from what I can tell under the highlights). And while I may not get ID’d quite as regularly while buying a bottle of fizzy wine in the supermarket, I still enjoy the occasional scrutinous glance from the cashier.
And you’re as old as you feel, right? I’m child-free so never have to pack lunches or negotiate over bathtime. I have a mortgage, but don’t understand it in the foggiest. I don’t know how to change a plug, nor do I ever see the need to learn. I, erm, can’t drive, but why would I when I have Uber? Adulting, it seems, has eluded me.
And then, it happened.
I’ve done my back in. Even the phrase sounds old – in the same league as “it wasn’t like that in my day” or “are you on Facebook?”
Enter middle age. Suddenly I’ve transformed from being this sprightly young thing to someone who makes grunting noises when they get up from a chair – turns out I do take after my dad. When I swing my backpack on, I groan as my back spasms. Any sudden reach or flail can set it off, so I’m moving gingerly, like a rusty robot with haemorrhoids.
What caused this? No, it wasn’t a triathlon or passionate embrace or drunken tomfoolery. (Uh-oh, tomfoolery, another old person expression?)
I woke up like this, but not in the way Beyoncé probably meant. One day I was fine, the next I woke from a deep sleep with mid-back pain. I suppose I slept funny – I wondered were my pillows an inch too high, my bed too soft? Did I have to buy an ugly orthopaedic pillow now? What’s next, a toilet-roll cosy?
I’m familiar with gym injuries and even a temporary ache from standing too long, but this was different. I wondered if this was just old age, just the beginning of a lifetime of minor gripes and grumbles.
square DRIVING 'I'm 94 and still driving - I'm safer than younger drivers'
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Now that I’m dwelling on it, perhaps this middle-age thing has been creeping up on me for a while. I’ve realised running was only for people who were being chased, and instead love a leisurely walk. I’ve stopped doing yoga, feeling too exhausted after a day at the office to do much more than lounge on the sofa. Defrosting my freezer gives me an inexplicable feeling of satisfaction. I’ve started to look at shoes and think: “Ooh, they look comfy.” I really, really enjoy a crossword puzzle.
And, while I’m not exactly settling into a life of Bovril and bingo, I’ve realised there are other clues to middle age that didn’t exist in my parent’s time. I use (one might say overuse) emojis in text messages, something my younger friends snigger at. Any punctuation at all, it seems, is gauche, but it troubles my editor’s brain to omit a question mark. I am acutely aware that I have been paying taxes longer than some of my co-workers have been alive. I have been known to side-part my hair – a Gen Z no-no. I don’t really know who Sabrina Carpenter is.
But back to my back. Perhaps there’s still hope – I’ve promised myself I’ll see a physio, resume some exercise (maybe even, God forbid, running) and get my skeleton back in working order. And I’ve realised there might be one middle-aged habit that’s done the damage – hunching over my daily crossword puzzle. So it’s back to podcasts for me – how young and hip is that?
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