On Waking Up Forty
I turned forty this morning. I’ve been telling people I was forty since the morning after my thirty eight birthday. I thought it might lessen the blow of actually turning forty. It didn’t. Yesterday afternoon when the first birthday card fell through my letterbox I don’t know why I was so emotional, but I ended up in floods of tears.
Big birthdays are always strange. They shouldn’t be any different from ordinary run of the mill birthdays. But whenever there’s a nought at the end of my age I always seem to have a mini crisis. I end up taking a cold hard look at myself, drawing comparisons with other people and asking myself really stupid questions like what have I actually achieved here? Am I normal for my age? Why have I still not managed to fix the damp patch in my bedroom? I’m not normally this kind of person but birthdays seem to knock me for six, and forty feels like the biggest birthday yet. If I’m going to be statistically average, (an unlikely assumption in light of my life so far), then half my life is now over. I am approaching the territory of middle-age. I have, (as old ladies are wont to point out to me), no children, no husband, not even a dog. I spend most of my time by myself. I live in a house with a problematic roof where most of my assets are tied up in shoes and novels. I am not the part time football commentator part time fashion designer I’d hoped to be at fifteen.
I let myself have a wee cry. Every so often it is good to cry at real life things which are not characters dying on Casualty or poorly babies on Call the Midwife. Then, I did the dishes and had a shower and reminded myself that ten years ago I turned thirty in a muddy field playing tag rugby with a bunch of over-privileged children, (i do not even like children). At the time I was living in the least friendly village in England and was mostly spending my nights crying in Tesco car park and trying to convince strangers to be my friend. There have been many bad times in my life, but this nine month period, encompassing my thirtieth, was definitely up there with the worst. And while I do not believe in comparison as a means of making yourself feel better about your own less than wonderful situation, it was good to be remember that I will not be playing tag rugby with bratty children for my fortieth birthday and, for the most part, things are much better than they were a decade ago.
Sometimes when life feels a wee bit stuck, I like to think about all the things that have changed in the last few years. It’s amazing how much can happen in a relatively short period of time and it’s a good reminder when you’re standing up to your oxters in mud in a Hertfordshire field or crying on your couch because you are old and a wee bit lonely, that things don’t always stay the same. It’s also nice to speculate on what might be different a decade from now. (Nb i will probably begin telling people I’m 50 around about 45 just to give myself a decent lead in time). I’ve made a list of some significant things I’ve acquired in the last ten years -some are positive, some not so much- to remind myself that I am not stuck. I’m still in progress and maybe forty isn’t that bad.
Very many new friends here, there and pretty much everywhere.
Four books.
A niece.
An actual proper love for Belfast.
A QFT membership card.
A fringe.
A Brexit.
Two houses, (though not simultaneously)
Three publishers, (two delightful, one not so hot).
The very best agent in the whole world.
A Hannah to collaborate with.
A chronic pain condition.
Endeavour.
A taste for olives.
The best job in the world for six years in the Ulster Hall.
Laughter lines around my eyes.
So many wonderful community projects and participants I’ve totally lost count.
A masters degree.
A dentist
An accountant
An absence of grandparents
An Irish passport
750 Postcard Stories.
Blond hair
George Saunders
A passionate interest in Dementia
A number of residencies in strange places, (trains, palm house, Paris, shipping container).
Radio 4
Nine different pairs of yellow shoes
My first parking ticket.