I’m not afraid to act my age

I WISH someone had told me, on the eve of my 30th birthday, that despite common fears about ageing and being ‘left on the shelf’, getting older feels pretty darn good.

Turning 30 was so positive that I wanted to write about it, so others would not feel the anxiety I did before my birthday.

I wanted to find other women, aged 30, 40, 50, 60 … all the way up to a centenarian, to talk about how great it is to be happy with your age and to allay the fears of women suffering post-birthday angst. With the enthusiasm of a 20-year-old, I looked in my address book, which is bulging with the names of intelligent, successful, fun-loving, cool and charming women (of all ages), who I was sure would openly share their experiences of getting older and wiser. After emailing friends, texting friends of friends, posting on Facebook, and tirelessly calling name after name on my list, my enthusiasm flagged. Usually loquacious women didn’t want to talk about one issue — their age. Some asked hesitantly, ‘Do I have to give my name?’ while some recoiled when I mentioned revealing their age in a national newspaper. Even women who are content and confident in their lives, from the most hardened cynics to the tough-cookie business women, all retreated when asked to stand up and talk about their age.

So I’m not alone when it comes to the pre-birthday blues. Jean Kearney, 59, a successful business woman from Cork, said while she had never been anything but open about her age and had fond memories of her 40th and 50th birthdays, she was dreading 60. “For the first time in my life, I’m not at all happy about the approaching birthday, my 60th...” she said. “I work in a very youth-orientated business and 60 sounds so dreadfully old. I really believe with each decade it gets better … but there is shock on people’s faces when you tell them you are nearly 60.”

Among the many women who wished not to be named, one manager for an international company, who has just turned 50, said she would be happy to talk about anything … but not her age.

Three weeks after her 50th birthday, she said “I am still traumatised about this hideous age.”

The women approaching 30 seemed equally maudlin, one referring to that decade as a ‘thrices’. Sarah Murphy, 29, who works in business and cultural development, said she was nervous about not having done the things on her wish list, and wondered when everyone at her favourite bar suddenly got so young?

This is indicative of the pressure that women heap upon themselves to have/do/accomplish everything, while still looking 10 years younger. One soon-to-be 50-year-old woman told me she would kill the friend who had passed on her name, one just-turned-40, very politely, told me to take a hike, while my first-choice 70-year-old turned out to be 66 and not amused. Hardly an encouraging start, but, then again, I understand why women get a little tetchy when it comes to their age.

When my last birthday approached, I felt pretty chipper about reaching 30 relatively unscathed (bar the usual dramas, horrendous break-ups and ridiculously thoughtless, potentially dangerous behaviour that everyone in their 20s engages in ... and mine, I’m sure, were tame in comparison to some).

I was glad to finally be approaching an age where, for the first time, I was pretty sure I knew what I wanted to do with my career, liked my friends and felt secure that they liked me too, was beginning to know my own mind (but, more importantly — not speak it all the time) and without sounding all Dr Phil about it, I knew myself. Yet when my birthday came up in conversation, I met everything from casual teasing (of the ‘better get a husband/have kids quick’ variety), to a few more barbed comments, which, surprisingly, came from other women over 30, and even a few that really scared me. One former colleague suggested that it would be in my interest to ‘never turn 30’, which I found at first to be deeply creepy, and then, after a while, pretty hilarious.

Just as I was beginning to lose hope in my ‘getting old is great’ conquest, I spoke to Eileen Lovett — the week before her 100th birthday. Expecting to hear her bemoan ageing, instead she told me plainly that her 100th birthday would be no different to any other. “I don’t feel any different at all, I’m just looking forward to hearing from the President,” she said. There was no angst, anxiety or dread in her voice, she cheerfully said that her age was a milestone, something to boast about. After a while, my naive questions about ageing started to sound foolish; this was clearly no big deal, and so we moved on to a far more interesting conversation, about everything, from life in London (in 1937 and 2011), to her love of cars, and having great, great, great grandchildren, to Downton Abbey.

Finally, a woman proud, not scared, or apologetic, about her age. Nor was Emer Mortell, business development manager at the Merrion Hotel, who said that turning 40 in May was a step up to “a different level of maturity.” Happily married, with two children, in a jet-setting job she clearly enjoys, she said: “I feel accomplished and happily accepting of ‘the 40’ and also excited … and looking forward to the next ten years.” Bingo. Now that’s what I wanted to hear.

Eveleen Coyle, who runs Fabulous Food Trails, took a little time to decide if she wanted to talk about turning 60, but when she did, her words were ingenuous. “Astonishment” was the feeling she had when she turned 60 in August. “I went to bed one night and woke up the next day 60.” Her attitude, though, is also one of acceptance. “You can say whatever you like, you will still be 60 … do you have a choice?” The simple answer, of course, is no.

Getting older is non-negotiable, so why do women seem to rail against it so much? No one jumps up and down at the thought of getting old because the human condition means we are inherently, and quite justifiably, fearful about death, but what I understood from the women I spoke with was not that they were fearful of death, but fearful of age itself … and there is a difference.

One of the most telling comments came from a successful, incredibly intelligent woman who is on the verge of turning 70. She was adamant that she not be named, because she felt it would not be in her interest professionally, which in itself speaks volumes about how our society treats older women.

She said that while inwardly she felt no “specialness” about her approaching birth date, she felt outwardly a sense of “social disdain … which drives you on to the defensive and which makes you protective of, for example, your right as well as your ability to keep working.” The scary thing is, her fear is justified. How many older women do we see on our TV screens anymore? Very few, unless you are watching Antiques Roadshow.

And so, after tireless work (if I do say so myself) and an exhaustive search, I suppose I half succeeded in my task. I found that more women than not would prefer to keep their real age their own dirty little secret, but that in doing so we all perpetuate more fear and apprehension about ageing.

Yet when women do open up and tell the truth about getting older, it’s a pretty liberating thing.

What a pity we aren’t more willing to tell each other all the good things that come with age — like being able to love, not selfishly, but not so much that we lose ourselves either, knowing who and what matters, not having to call your mother/father when any crisis occurs, even occasionally being unflappable, then having enough money to buy yourself a good bottle of wine to pat yourself on the back when the crisis is averted, and slowly, very slowly, starting to realise that while your 20-year-old washboard stomach was excellent, you wouldn’t give what you know now for one second to have it back.

The almost one million women in this country aged 45+ could do wonders if they would admit, accept, and celebrate their age.

In fact, if we all gave two fingers to the cult of youth, we might end up living in a place where perspective, experience, wit and wisdom are valued more than a wrinkle-free brow, and save ourselves a whole load of effort, worry and stress.

It’s not about binning your hairdryer, going to the supermarket in your slippers, or resigning yourself to a life of watching Bargain Hunters, it’s about admitting that battling age is futile, it’s a fight we can’t win. So I, for one, am not going to bother even trying. I’m far too old for all that.