Toe in the Water

Undefeated

Undefeated

Occasionally I may mention in this blog the fact that I’m old. That may be a slight understatement. In fact, if I’m honest (and I try to be but no guarantees), it’s a subject that I return to again and again in my writing, be it blog, poetry, short story and, if I ever get around to it, novel.

Age is a subject that has interested me for a long time. As long as I can remember, I have always wanted to be older. In my younger days this was probably motivated by my observation that it was always older people who had all the money, the freedom and the power to do as they wished.

Little did I know that life was about to play a cruel trick on me. As I progressed from teenage years to my twenties, I found that the goalposts had moved. Instead of entering the sunny uplands of olderland, it seemed that things had moved on and it was now necessary to get even older before enjoying the benefits of maturity.

This perception may have been influenced by the fact that I was still deciding what to do with my life. Instead of settling for a career with a clear path to the heights of a fat salary and respectability, I messed about with dreams of being an artist or a writer, while supporting myself with the miserable wages I received for whatever job that came my way.

The solution seemed obvious - get older and the fruits will come.

You may not have noticed, but getting older is one of the easiest life goals there is. I was entirely successful in my endeavour. And, true to form, someone moved the goalposts again. I was forty before I realised that I was no longer a desirable commodity on the job market. Oh, I could hold down a dead end job with ease but, when it came to the plum positions that paid a great deal for very little, they were looking for someone younger.

It was my misfortune to live at a time when employers changed from wanting experience and skill to worshipping at the altar of youth. And now, of course, it was impossible for me to turn around and get younger every year. The future stretched ahead of me, a matter of only getting older and less wanted in the world.

That was when I understood that I didn’t actually care. It had been so enjoyable doing what I wanted and watching the years trundle past, that I was happy enough. The fact that any ambition to have a career had long faded into the mists of time, allowed me to indulge my true interests.

Writing was one of those and, surprisingly, so was the process of getting older. It was like a familiar and ongoing study, watching as the body began to slow down in so many ways, the hair begin to turn grey and then completely white (so distinguished looking!), and new aches and pains appear to extend my collection.

Hitting seventy was a bit of a surprise, I’ll admit, but it turned out not to be very different from the years preceding it; just a few more craggy wrinkles in the face, the skin getting ever thinner so the veins become visible in my hands and arms, the flesh dropping off me so that I become ever smaller and more frail. It’s all so very interesting! And masses of material for poems and stories.

So don’t feel sorry for me. I’m quite proud of my age and the weird creature I’ve become. It may look as though life has dealt me a poor hand but, dammit, I earned this age and I intend to enjoy it to the full.

So there.


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