With much humour, 74 year-old Sandra Howard lists the reasons – and many of them apply to men too! Published in Mail Online, UK, on April 5, 2015
Having reached my 74th year, you’d think I would have learnt to act my age. Yet I still often find myself jolting in surprise when I look in the mirror. Can that really be me? For some reason, my brain can’t seem to process the fact that I’m no longer 18 — after all, I feel the same as I did then.
Here’s the 50 reasons why I’ve finally realised I’m past it . . .
1 The AA sent me a very smart hardcover road atlas of Britain. This was lovely until I read the covering letter, which said it was a thank-you gift for having been a member for 50 years.
2 This road atlas came with an attached magnifying glass.
3 When I enter my date of birth in the little boxes on online forms, I have to scroll down such a long way that I worry the list will end before I reach 1940.
4 I giggled at a line in The Second Best Marigold Hotel about being ‘nearer the menopause than the mortuary’, then realised it wouldn’t apply to me.
5 Foundation used to be a make-up bag essential that concealed my little imperfections. Now, it does the opposite, sinking into wrinkles and making crevices look bigger. And the imperfections aren’t so little any more.
6 On the bus, I offered my seat to an old dear who looked unsteady on her pins. Then a well-meaning young girl leapt up to offer me her seat in turn.
7 I mix up my children’s names. I call my grandsons by each other’s names or their father’s, my younger son by the elder one’s name. I’ve developed a sort of matriarchal dyslexia.
8 It takes me longer to answer a call of nature. I used to be in and out in no time. Now, what with fumbling with fastenings and tights, people are banging on the door.
9 Talking of which, I used to make it through the night. Then it was one trip, now it’s two. I dread the night it hits double figures.
10 Our marital banter has changed. I can’t tell you what our teases used to be, as my memory’s not what it was. But these days, all we seem to joke about is deafness, forgetfulness and never listening to a word the other one says.
11 I have a terror of being forced to bank online. I’d get confused and send all my money goodness knows where. I like a nice, old-fashioned statement on a piece of paper.
12 I love my cashmere bedsocks. I bought them one Christmas for my daughter, who also gets cold feet and hands, but she just smiled and said: ‘You have them, Mum.’ I’ve worn them ever since, even in summer.
13 No one questions whether I’m a senior citizen when I buy cinema, museum or theatre tickets any more. There was once a brief moment when I’d be eyed suspiciously, or flatteringly complimented on not looking my age.
14 Oh, the embarrassment I felt when a man was sounding off about facelifts in front of several of us women. ‘You can always tell,’ he said. ‘You only have to look at the veiny crocodile hands.’ We couldn’t help dropping our eyes to our hands. It’s not that I’m lifted, but the crocodile skin and veins are there in abundance.
15 I have to sit down on the bed to put on my tights.
16 I also have to do up my bra in front and swizzle it round; it’s such an effort to reach round to the back.
17 I hear myself talking about ‘that nice young man’ and ‘that snip of a thing’ — then realise they’re about 35.
18 My hair is getting distinctly thinner — and my eyebrows. I can’t say the same for the hair on my chin.
19 When I hear someone was born in the Nineties, I expect them to be a child, then realise they’re in their 20s.
20 When a Beatles number comes on air, I feel a happy glow — and remember that I saw them live, long before they were big (or even medium). They were the warm-up act to Sylvie Vartan and Trini Lopez in a Paris theatre. I was there for the French collections, doing fashion pics with Terry Donovan — in 1964!
21 I now read the targeted circulars that come through the door with alluring offers for pension plans, retirement homes and being tested for the likelihood of strokes. I also really think some of the elasticated trousers they sell look rather comfortable.
22 How does the Queen do it? Standing really gets to me these days, yet she’s always standing up and never seems to tire. And she’s a lot older than me.
23 I’ve developed a need for peace and quiet. I turn the radio down, my husband Michael turns it up. And the pumped-up volume of TV ads drives me mad. Loud noise is too much, unless it’s loud jazz when I’m driving alone in the car. Is there hope for me yet?
24 I keep moaning that remakes of old films aren’t a patch on the original. A case in point is Far From The Madding Crowd with Julie Christie, Alan Bates and Terence Stamp. The new film is great but, for me, nothing could replace the smouldering scenes involving those three.
25 I feel jumpy if my better half is away and I’m alone at home. I do need a man about the house, it seems.
26 Backache, knee ache, toe ache, arthritic joints; you name it, I’ve got it. Even my little finger hurts!
27 I’m getting worried about shrinkage. Friends of my sort of age seem to be looking smaller. Is the same true of me?
28 It takes me an age to unravel myself in the mornings. I stagger out of bed, walking bandily as if I’ve just got off a horse, and it’s hard to straighten out my shoulders before at least three cups of strong coffee.
29 I hate that awful moment when a white van man sees you from behind, wolf-whistles, then says ‘Sorry love!’ when you turn round.
30 I’ve developed a hatred of showers. I like a good soak, a place to rest my head and being able to reach my feet without toppling into the side of the wretched shower cubicle.
31 I used to read well into the night. Now, the book slips from my fingers after only three or four pages. Playing a board game such as Scrabble also sends me straight to sleep.
32 I’ve realised how long in the tooth I am — and that’s not just stating the obvious. I’m talking about receding gums.
33 Speaking of teeth, I have a dreadful fear of visits to the dentist. I look at mine with pleading eyes and think: ‘Please don’t deprive me of another tooth.’
34 I hear myself harping on about the Sixties being such a great decade, then realise it was half-a-century ago.
35 It’s one thing not to remember names, but faces are just as big a problem — especially those of friends I haven’t seen in a while. Why? They’ve aged so much!
36 I used to avoid bananas and avocados for being full of calories, but now I love them. They’re comforting, easy to eat (my dentist warns me against biting into Granny Smiths) and good for digestion.
37 I can’t text with two thumbs. It’s beyond me.
38 Long-haul flights can never be too long for me. I love them — I can write reams with no interruptions. But afterwards! I’m a wreck for three days or more.
39 I need to have a pair of glasses in every room in the house. And the car. And my children’s and friends’ houses.
40 I’ll unknowingly repeat the same story to people — often to the person who told it to me in the first place.
41 I check weather forecasts endlessly and never leave home without an extra layer and an umbrella, just in case.
42 If I sleep heavily (rare), I’ll wake up with creases on my face or chest that seem to take forever to disappear.
43 When did I last go on to a nightclub? I sleep less, but seem to need more. I’m ready for bed by ten. The idea of staying up until midnight fills me with horror.
44 I attend more and more funeral and memorial services. My washing loads always seem to include a black outfit.
45 I’m getting even worse about not sticking to sell-by dates. I’ve been known to give my beloved three-month-old yoghurts.
46 It’s embarrassing how proud I am of still being able to run upstairs (usually).
47 I can’t wear high heels any longer than I have to. I walk or drive to where I’m going in flatties and change in hallways, on the bus or in the street.
48 I can’t read menus (even holding them at arm’s length) without my glasses, which I’ve always left in another bag.
49 Despite the menu-reading problem, I love restaurants with little candles on the tables, shedding a soft light. I’m not sure I ever wanted to be in the spotlight, but I certainly don’t any more.
50 But all that said, there is a most wonderful upside. Nothing gives me more pleasure than being a granny. When my two youngest grandchildren run into my arms calling ‘Gran, Gran!’ my heart overflows with joy.
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