I recently attended a Christmas party for staff and contributors to a newspaper for which I used to be a reporter, and which shall remain nameless.
I had not seen most of the people there for 12 years. As the evening went on, I noted uneasily that all of them were 12 years older than the last time I saw them.
Men who used to sport dark or darkish hair now had white hair. Unremarkable, you might think, but when you haven’t seen most of your former colleagues for more than a decade it strikes home.
I had to admit that they, and I, had crossed a Rubicon – we were no longer on the side of the river we had been on 12 years ago.
Moreover, the boat that had stealthily taken us across to this side would be returning only to bring others to join us.
I have an irrational objection to other people getting older. How can I deny my own ageing if the people around me age also?
Mesmerised
I had already experienced a jolt at an event in Caragh parish church where I served Mass as a boy. The event marked the 50th anniversary of the opening of the church. I watched mesmerised as people I had not seen for decades went forward for Communion.
Every one of them – without exception – was 50 years older. It was an almost surreal experience and it brought home in an undeniable way that we were all half a century further down a road that had, 50 years previously, been endless.
I feel the same way about the ageing of movie stars. I find it saddening to see older age descending on actors such as Jack Nicholson and Malcolm McDowell whom I first saw at the start of their stardom.
Somehow I feel Jack Nicholson should always be the doomed young lawyer who took Easy Rider by storm in 1969 and Malcolm McDowell should always be the anarchic schoolboy in If.... in 1968.
Talking of cinema, when I first booked a cinema seat at the “senior” price and turned up with my driving licence ready, did anyone ask me to prove my age? No, one look and they knew.
I told myself people who check tickets are so young they think anybody over 30 is ancient but somehow I doubt if a 31-year-old or even a 51-year-old would get away with it.
When a bank teller informed me that they had a golden years thing which would mean that I wouldn’t have to pay a fee to convert money into foreign currencies my immediate attitude was a) I am not ready to sit by the fire for the rest of my life and go nowhere (an assumption I presume the concession is based on) and b) I will be working until I trip into the grave so why would I want to mark myself down as someone who doesn’t do business anymore?
My denial mechanism, in other words, is going strong even if I’m the only one who believes in it.
Free travel
The mechanism will be tested again with the free travel pass which I suppose I will qualify for sometime in the next year or two.
Something in me says that I have not reached this stage of life yet – not really – and if I’m travelling in order to work, I probably shouldn’t be using a travel pass anyway. But really it’s about not wanting to be some sort of old boy proffering his pass to the driver before shuffling off to the nearest empty seat.
Overall, my feeling seems to be that this whole age business should not be happening to me and it shouldn’t be happening to anybody else either.
Is this all terribly unfair to people over 60? Oh, alright, to people over 65? Probably.
But guess what: I’m the same age as you so I can say what I damn well please. Stick that in your not-been-used-for-40-years marijuana pipe and smoke it.
Padraig O’Morain is a counsellor accredited by the Irish Association for Counselling and Psychotherapy. His latest book is Mindfulness on the Go. His mindfulness newsletter is free by email.
