I had someone say to me recently that “sixty-five is the new forty.”
It’s one of those phrases we’ve heard so often that we’re supposed to nod and accept it as a compliment.
And I found myself thinking…
Is it?
And perhaps more importantly…
Why does it need to be?
I’m fast approaching sixty-five, and apparently the good news is that I can think of myself as forty.
Except I’ve already been forty.
It was perfectly nice.
But I’ve done it now.
And it made me wonder why, even when we’re trying to say something positive about getting older, we still reach for youth as the compliment.
As though sixty-five needs a little help.
A younger number beside it to make us feel better.
I’m not sure it does.
I don’t think that’s refusing to grow old gracefully.
Perhaps this is growing old gracefully now.
We’re not pretending the years didn’t happen.
Good grief, why would we?
Sixty-five contains fifty.
And forty.
And thirty.
And twenty.
And every age before them.
I’ve already accumulated all those women.
I don’t need to go backwards and become one of them again.
I get to bring them with me.
The twenty-year-old brought experiences to thirty. Thirty carried them into forty. Forty added a few more — some useful, some probably best forgotten — and brought the lot into fifty.
And now they’re all coming with me into sixty-five.
That’s quite a collection.
Because being sixty-five today isn’t necessarily what being sixty-five looked like when I was younger.
I remember my parents reaching retirement age. My mother at sixty, my father at sixty-five.
I thought they were old.
I’m sure they’d be delighted to know that.
But that’s how I saw them.
And now I’m approaching the same age and there’s a strange disconnect between the number I know I’m becoming and the person I feel myself to be.
I’m a grandmother.
Seven times over, actually, so there’s really no wriggling out of that one.
But I don’t feel like the grandmother I imagined when I was younger.
Maybe that’s because the picture I had belonged to a different time.
So much has changed.
For years we’ve been encouraged to take better care of ourselves. We know more about nutrition, movement, our hearts, our bones, our skin and our bodies. Medicine has moved forward. Healthcare has moved forward.
And perhaps we’re now seeing the results of all that.
We’re not becoming forty again.
We’re simply experiencing sixty-five differently.
I rather like that distinction.
I still colour my hair.
Every so often I wonder whether I’m supposed to stop.
There seems to be an imaginary age at which a woman should gaze thoughtfully into the bathroom mirror and say, Right then. Bring on the grey.
Mine apparently hasn’t arrived yet.
Not because I think grey hair is ageing. Some women look absolutely beautiful with it.
I just like my hair the way it is.
I still paint my nails.
I still like doing my makeup and putting on something that makes me feel feminine.
I still like feeling attractive.
I still like feeling sensual.
And I don’t think any of that means I’m trying to be younger.
It means I’m still a woman.
Some days, of course, I wash my hair, tie it up and decide my face is perfectly capable of managing on its own.
That’s also me.
Perhaps that’s what I’ve been thinking about.
Not how to stay young.
But how much broader getting older can be than I once imagined.
I’ve always liked being female.
I’ve always liked softness and femininity. Caring. Nurturing. Gentleness.
Age hasn’t made me want to exchange those things for something louder.
I don’t particularly want to become outrageous simply because I’ve reached the age when I’m apparently supposed to stop caring what people think.
I wasn’t especially outrageous at forty.
It seems rather exhausting to start now.
I just want to carry on being me.
Only with more years behind me.
And that’s the other thing about sixty-five.
It doesn’t replace forty.
It contains it.
I’ve already been forty.
I’ve been thirty.
I’ve been twenty.
Every one of those women came with me.
Their experiences did.
Their mistakes certainly did.
The things they learned, the people they loved, the things that made them laugh, the things they survived.
Sixty-five doesn’t erase any of them.
It adds to them.
And perhaps that’s why I’m beginning to think we’ve concentrated on the wrong thing.
Maybe sixty-five hasn’t become younger at all.
Maybe sixty-five has simply become different.
Our lives have changed.
Our health has changed.
The way we look after ourselves has changed.
Perhaps the picture in our heads is simply taking a little longer to catch up.
So I’m not going to call sixty-five the new forty.
Forty was lovely, but she’s had her turn.
And I don’t need to borrow her number to feel better about mine.
I’ll keep the things she taught me.
I’ll keep colouring my hair for as long as I fancy it.
I’ll keep painting my nails.
And occasionally I’ll continue allowing my face to fend for itself.
But when sixty-five arrives, I think I’ll simply let it be sixty-five.
After all, I won’t be arriving alone. Forty will be there.
So will thirty.
Twenty too.
Every woman I’ve been gets to come with me.
In fact, I’m beginning to think it might be rather lovely.
I’ve got an awful lot of women to bring along to the party.