I've managed to survive nearly a month of my new decade and the pain is beginning to wear off. As long I don't have to actually say my age out loud, I think I'll be okay! Somehow uttering that number is horribly painful, but luckily it's not a very regular occurrence!
My dad turned 70 in the same week as I turned 40. That puts it into perspective somewhat. But actually I think that's part of what I was struggling with around my own birthday - the realisation of what old age means, not just for me, but for those I love. With a septuaganarian parent, I am aware that things are changing for my whole family, albeit slowly. At some point - though hopefully still many, many years in the future - my parents will no longer be there. I can hardly bear to think of a future without them. Whilst I don't have daily contact with them, I've always known that they were there, offering love and support whenever needed, and inevitably life will change once that's not there.
Having just spent a week with my entire family, all 3 generations of it, I wonder to myself how our family dynamic will change over the years. With one sister living overseas, our relationship these days is mostly defined by the time we spend together at my parents' house each year. What will happen when they are no longer there?
I feel that these must be the golden years of a family. When the grandparents are young and fit enough to enjoy their grandchildren, and the grandchildren are young enough to still be innocent and (relatively) talkative. In a few years, my nephews will be teenagers and hard to drag away from their computer games or to elicit conversation from. My parents will be less active and perhaps less mobile. So for now, we should be enjoying what we have because once it has gone, it won't come back for another generation.
Saturday, 27 April 2013
Saturday, 6 April 2013
The big four-O
I turned 40 this week.
The big four-O, or as I have been thinking of it, the big four-oh-my-goodness-I-can't-really-be-this-old! "Age is just a number", people say, and of course that's true. But this particular number is one that I have come to hate. I cannot currently say it out loud. Could I just stick at 39 for a few more years?
Why is this particular birthday so painful? If life was okay at 39, why should 40 be so different? And why do I find it so difficult to accept, when so many of my friends are embracing it and simply using it as a good excuse for a party? Whilst I've been trying to avoid thinking about it at all, I think I know the answer.
There's something about the age of 40 which seems like a marker in a woman's life. For many years, it was seen as the age after which women could no longer have children. The end of the fertile years, and thus the beginning of the decline into old age and decrepitude. The time when a woman is no longer biologically useful. As a single woman with no children, this makes me very sad. Not because I necessarily want to have children, but because I'm not ready to accept that the choice is no longer my own.
I always pictured Father Time as a kindly old chap, with a long, white beard and a twinkle in his eye. I think I probably imagined him as some kind of cousin of Father Christmas. Now I'm beginning to wonder if he's really one of the goodies - perhaps the fact that he carries a scythe should have been a clue to his purpose! Where his Lapland-dwelling relative arrives each year with gifts, Father Time seems to be more a taker than a giver (if you don't count the very generous sprinkling of grey hairs that he's given me over recent years!).
But as I write this, I am wondering if perhaps this bearded fellow is more generous than I give him credit for. Perhaps this landmark birthday is actually a reminder that life is there to be lived, and that that I should be extracting the maximum I can from it.
And on that positive note, I shall extract the maximum possible enjoyment from the salted caramel chocolate brownie that came my way this morning. I think that might just help take a little bit of the fortieth birthday pain away.
The big four-O, or as I have been thinking of it, the big four-oh-my-goodness-I-can't-really-be-this-old! "Age is just a number", people say, and of course that's true. But this particular number is one that I have come to hate. I cannot currently say it out loud. Could I just stick at 39 for a few more years?
Why is this particular birthday so painful? If life was okay at 39, why should 40 be so different? And why do I find it so difficult to accept, when so many of my friends are embracing it and simply using it as a good excuse for a party? Whilst I've been trying to avoid thinking about it at all, I think I know the answer.
There's something about the age of 40 which seems like a marker in a woman's life. For many years, it was seen as the age after which women could no longer have children. The end of the fertile years, and thus the beginning of the decline into old age and decrepitude. The time when a woman is no longer biologically useful. As a single woman with no children, this makes me very sad. Not because I necessarily want to have children, but because I'm not ready to accept that the choice is no longer my own.
I always pictured Father Time as a kindly old chap, with a long, white beard and a twinkle in his eye. I think I probably imagined him as some kind of cousin of Father Christmas. Now I'm beginning to wonder if he's really one of the goodies - perhaps the fact that he carries a scythe should have been a clue to his purpose! Where his Lapland-dwelling relative arrives each year with gifts, Father Time seems to be more a taker than a giver (if you don't count the very generous sprinkling of grey hairs that he's given me over recent years!).
But as I write this, I am wondering if perhaps this bearded fellow is more generous than I give him credit for. Perhaps this landmark birthday is actually a reminder that life is there to be lived, and that that I should be extracting the maximum I can from it.
And on that positive note, I shall extract the maximum possible enjoyment from the salted caramel chocolate brownie that came my way this morning. I think that might just help take a little bit of the fortieth birthday pain away.
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