Growing older

I’ve finally reached that time in my life where it’s become tempting to lie about my age.

While this has long been an accepted if not celebrated custom of women, it’s not been as popular among men.  Of course, consider that men have benefited enormously from the (probably male-perpetuated) notion that age on a man makes him look more distinguished. A touch of grey; a few wrinkles; a hardened, weathered face: all elements of increasing wisdom and masculinity to further distance us from the boys and young men we evolved from.

It’s actually grossly inaccurate and unfair of me to characterize women lying about their age as a “celebrated custom”, but that’s what we all conspire to pretend. Honestly, because of the (again, male-perpetuated) pressure on women to remain eternally young, lying is more an unjust necessity masked by coyness and humour.

The more I consider it, the more I want to believe that things are reversed. Women have the sensible and self-determined approach, and the belief that age looks good on a man is a white lie that they conceived and nurtured because they knew men were too lazy to go to the great lengths that women do to look good.

With that as my accepted premise, I’m beginning to understand the appeal of pressing the pause button permanently. I’m staying 30-something forever, and anyone impolite enough not to indulge me may consider themselves permanently excused from my company.

It’s not that I’m ashamed of my age—more that I don’t think that the number is a reasonable or definitive description of the person I am today. It’s not something I want people to use to measure me with before I’ve had the chance meet them in person.

When I think back to the teen and twenty-something me, it seemed like people in their 40s and beyond were positively alien—as far removed from my own experience and perception of reality as could possibly be. Most older people I met didn’t do much to dissuade me from this belief. Then, as now, adults either believe themselves to be so evolved that they don’t attempt to relate to youth, or they’re concerned that doing so might damage the boundary of difference that is the basis for their authority. Maybe they’re fearful of being ridiculed for trying to appear cool. I don’t know.

I do know that when I was a teenager, every now and then I did meet adults that impressed me with their youth. They didn’t overtly intrude into my reality with clumsy, embarrassing  attempts to speak my language. They didn’t brag about their connectedness to current culture. They were subtle. They listened well and showed genuine interest without prying too far. They read cool paperbacks that they’d offer to lend if they saw you trying to read the back-cover text. They listened to new music but didn’t seem the least bit concerned about whether the kids around them noticed. They were talented hobbyists who painted, photographed, or played electric guitar. They dressed down or up depending on their mood or the occasion.

I like to think I’m akin to the adults I used to idolize.  At least that’s how it feels from within. I’m not struggling with impending mortality so much as trying to reconcile outward appearances with inward feelings.

I’m aware that at least externally I appear increasingly less attractive, boring, harmless, or irrelevant, depending on the eyes that move across me. Internally, I feel young and hungry; driven and passionate, sometimes to the point of rage; still potentially dangerous and irresponsible… not unlike the person who inhabited this body 25 years ago. Education, life experience and the passing years may have made those two lives diverge, but they are still indefeasibly linked.  The additions and renovations still exist on a foundation largely unchanged.

I am older. Am I mature?  I suppose so, in that I’ve made choices in my life that required sacrifices and I’ve been compliant with those necessities, even when I felt that they robbed me of a substantial, even definitive aspect of my being. I don’t write nearly as often as I once did. I haven’t played music professionally for nearly 8 years. I haven’t had a close friend in nearly 10. But I have had love and children, and a chance to better understand myself and grow by having to think about myself both less often, and differently.

I understand that the commitments I have in the present will eventually require less of my time, and eventually there will be more time to gather and connect the lost parts of my life.  I hope that when that time arrives, the core of what is me is still as recognizable as it is today, both to myself and to others.