First written: June 14, 2009
You know what they say about middle age: it's always about a
decade ahead of where you are at any given point in time. There
comes a point, though, when you know that particular stage of life
isn't just waiting round the corner anymore; it's lurking,
sniggering into its hand, steeling itself to leap out and yell,
"Got you!"
And there are those unmistakable signs, that tell
you middle age is decidedly on the horizon, if not lurching its way
up the next street. Husband and I have fun, from time to time,
trying to come up with new indicators of middle age. For example,
you know you're middle aged when:
Your reaction to rainfall is that it will be good for the
gardens.
Your pelvic floor just isn't up to the mothers' race any
more.
You live in a street that young people come home to for
Christmas.
Words and phrases come out of your mouth that you last heard
your mother utter thirty years ago.
Just lately, we've found we can tick just about all those
boxes.
I suspect I've become extra- sensitive to the business of age
having spent a fair amount of time the last couple of years talking
to journalists. They always, to a man, woman and cub reporter, want
to know how old you are. And you have to tell 'em. Because,
"None of your effing business' is unlikely to result in favourable
copy in the Oxford Mail. Nor can you lie. Knock a few months off
and your in-box will be inundated with people who remember you from
when you had licorice on your face and hand-me-down navy blue
knickers.
Earlier this year, my French publishers, the lovely
Fleuve Noir, embarked upon a rather innovative marketing campaign.
They had six new, young (ish) female crime writers to promote.
First up, they put us in a calendar. I was Miss February (see
above). How cool is that? Then they did a Wanted
poster, in the style of the old wild west, with pictures of each of
us. Under each photograph appeared our names, country of
residence and our age: Robin Young, UK, age 34; Chelsea Cain, USA,
age 35; Sharon Bolton, UK, age unknown.
Now, Fleuve Noir knew my age only too well, but clearly honesty
isn't the best policy when you're trying to promote the new "black
babes" of French crime writing. No doubt, being French, they did a
bit of creative air-brushing on the picture as well. And I'm female
enough to be grateful they did.
I'm wondering if the solution is take a leaf out of Clara
Benning's book. Clara, the protagonist of Awakening, has no mirrors
in her house. She avoids reflective surfaces like most women avoid
small black creatures with many legs. As Clara knows, mirrors only
work if you approach with care, in soft light, at the right angle.
Let them catch you unawares and you're going to have to accept that
the wrinkles are there whether you're tired or not, that those
extra five pounds really do show and the bone structure around your
jaw-line probably won't be seen again this lifetime.
And that, as any woman in her forties will tell you, is hard.
What do we listen to? Our hearts, telling us the better part of our
lives is still to come; or our heads, saying 'get real girl, it's
all downhill from here'?
I'm with Clara, I've decided. The mirrors are going. Because
without them, I can still be that slender girl of 20, with
waist-length red hair, striding through life in search of
adventure.