'Youth is not a time of life… it is a state of mind. It is not a matter of ripe cheeks, red lips and supple knees… it is temper of the will, a quality of the imagination, a vigour of the emotions… it is a freshness of the deep springs of life.' Unknown.
Oh really? I thought as I examined a hairy tongue and the glazed eyes of a post-fortieth birthday morning. My cheeks far from being ripe seemed unduly fevered and as for supple knees, mine creak. Forty. Today I am forty. God's teeth! Who would ever have thought it. Time for the bag over the head and the slow slide into decrepitude. I don't want to sound too miserable about this age thing but I'm not dealing with it very well. Call it vanity if you like, or lost pride, or dented ego. Whatever. I like it not one whit.
Some people cheerily approach and chatter on about how life begins at forty and inside I scowl and mutter that only people over forty would ever utter such tosh. Of course life does not begin at forty. At forty you are halfway towards the grave; some beginning. Life changes at forty. I'll give you that and for me it feels pretty bleak just now. What is it that they think is better after turning forty? For the life of me I cannot say.
Arthritis. A belly heading inexorably towards your toes. Hairy nostrils and tufty ears. Aching injuries and grey hairs. And I'm not talking about a dashing salt and pepper sprinkle on the temples but grey chest hairs; grey pubic hairs, for God's sake! How depressing. So starting to look idiotic is better, is it?
What about the thinking parts? The insidious slide towards totally reactionary thought without any apparent reason. Shouting at news commentators and journalists' scribbles in outrage when for the past four decades you never gave a damn. Whereas before your passion was fuelled by the irrational and escapist stunts of youth now you care less about that and mutter incomprehensibly at the television, aroused and irate but too apathetic to do anything about it.
Why spend the first part of your life living on the edge of everything, having those brilliant ideas that spring to mind soon after eating the worm at the bottom of the Tequila bottle, rocking the Kasbah and trying to sink the boat and then spend the second half too terrified to change your toothpaste. Where did it all go? How come I've suddenly got so many damned socks, and when one stout black pair of grollies would last eight weeks in the Alps I now have a drawer stuffed full of them and agonise over whether to iron them or not - why?
It's the same with health. As a callow youth all my illnesses were self-inflicted and worth it. Well, that's true to a degree I suppose. I mean, a year and a half in plaster casts and on crutches, nine operations, all those scars and stitches, pins, plates, wires and nails - no they were not much fun or worth much at all. Nor the morphine and the sweet stench of anaesthetic gas as I wheezed into a conscious agony, or the sour smell of old plaster casts and the wire taut pain of physiotherapy. But hell, think of the craic we had, the tales to tell, laughing all the way to the operating table. It was grand. Sure it was. And I miss it.
I miss the idiocy of it all. I miss not worrying about money, not even caring about it further than the price of the next beer. I miss the fact that everything seemed to work and yet today everything seems to be falling off, or breaking down, or plain stopping. I dread the day I can't drink five pints and not sleep through the night. How long will it be before bladder control is just a distant fantasy? Why don't I look forward to the same things? To dancing until dawn, to swallowing anything I could get my heads on for no better reason than I couldn't think of a reason not to. When doing things to excess was more than enough for me. When I dreamed of sleeping with as many girls as I could (preferably at the same time) but never did though the thought was nice.
How did I ever think that getting out of my head and sledging off a ski-jump could be anything other than fun? What is it about the teenage mindset that differs so much from mine? I heard say that drugs are just for teenagers because they are insane, paranoid and unbearable at that point anyway so what the hell! At any other age it's madness and a little sad. In more sober moments I would warn myself never to grow old and live to regret not having at least tried to do the things I wanted. Now I just regret being old.
I never used to think twice about climbing up into the third floor bathroom window seven pints of Old Roger to the bad, or not that is, until John fell legs astride a brick wall from forty feet, shattering his pelvis in five places and acquiring bollocks the size of grapefruits and a black pudding for a member. I'd climb tall buildings with the glee of an anarchist and yet now I wouldn't dare look down for fear of my teeth falling out.
We would gamble on anything. Play three card brag until dawn, going to the edge of fiscal sanity, playing Blind and winning with nothing and not a fear in the world, laughing fit to bust on the adrenaline of it all. Now I'm scared of my shadow. I confront bold challenges then turn and run howling, squirting urine in every direction, like a kid from a haunted house. What is happening to me? Now, too scared to lose, it would be whist or bridge and that's shameless and too sad to think about. I swore blind that life ended when you took up golf and now I'm a sad fanatic ruining a good walk and tempted by appalling trousers and v-necked sleeveless sweaters.
Then there are those friends with kids who sidle up to you and murmur how having kids was the best thing they ever did and I go misty-eyed and soppy and agonise about being single and childless and think of a lonely, grumpy old age with no grandchildren to play with and tell them stories of derring-do. That is until I awake with a start and know I never wanted children because I can't stand the little buggers - get thee behind me!
They say age brings wisdom, prudence and the comfort of experience but I'd trade all that in (which I don't seem to be able to find anyway) just to do something utterly daft without thinking, for the chance to make mistakes and not give a damn. Good judgement comes from experience and experience comes from bad judgement. What a superbly dumb learning curve. What is the point of knowing everything and being able to do nothing. And you can't because it's all so damned hard all of a sudden and your courage has gone, and your legs hurt, you're full of fears and your strength has wilted, and you can't stop worrying about your goddamn mortgage.
I thought Jeremy Clarkson had it right when he wrote 'You go through the first part of your life experiencing things for the first time and knowing that, after forty years, you will have a big party with all the friends you have made. Whereas in the second part of your life, you fall over a lot, knowing that when it's all over there will still be a big party. But you won't be at it - due to the fact that you will be dead.'
I swallowed two paracetamols and a glass of Resolve and hobbled down to the kitchen. As I waited for the kettle to boil I perused Mr. Unknown's ditty with a jaundiced eye.
'Nobody grows old living a number of years, people grow old only by deserting their ideals. Years wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul. Worry, doubt, self-trust, fear and despair… these are the long, long years that bow the head and turn the growing spirit back to dust. Whether seventy or sixteen, there is in every being's heart the love of wonder, the sweet amazement of the stars and star-like things and thoughts, the undaunted challenge of events, the unfailing child-like appetite for what next, and the joy and game of life.'
A bit flowery but he had a point and then the phone rang and a friend asked if I was going flying and I said no, I had work to do and replaced the receiver. Then I looked at the blue sky, and the cotton wool clouds marking the thermals and thought of wafting through them, flying with the birds, rising effortless in an updraught, heart jumping at the sudden partial collapse of the canopy, and I looked at my laptop and thought 'sod it, I'll get old some other day.' I grabbed my paraglider and headed for the door.
© Joe Simpson, Aug 2000