There’s great news from across the pond.
A recent survey of 1,000 British adults suggests that middle age starts much later than previously thought–at age 55. Leave it to our tea-sipping, crumpet-crunching friends to prove that 40 really is the new 20. Phew! What a relief to know that I have barely crossed the starting line on this whole growing old thing.
I stopped by my husband’s office the other day to share the good news about our giant step back from the abyss, but rather than be given an opportunity to espouse the brilliance of the Brits, I was given some personal paperwork to fill out for him instead.
“Is there a problem?” he asked me at one point. I believe my finger drumming tipped him off that I was stumped.
“I’m just not sure how to answer one of these questions,” I finally admitted.
“So, what’s the question?”
“Well…” I hesitated, “the question is, ‘What is your date of birth?’”
“Patty, your date of birth is November 8, 19….”
“No, no, no, don’t say it,” I shrieked. “That’s what I came to tell you…that my biological age no longer represents my sociological age.” With Stephen, you have to throw in a few fancy words to keep him interested. “I’ve made the decision to shave a few years off my date of birth – not with the U.S. Social Security Administration, of course, as we both remember what a hubbub that caused when my sister, Linda, did it. I figure no one else really cares but now that I have an opportunity to do it, it just feels a little weird.”
I pulled the story I’d printed from BBC News On-line and handed it to him. “That’s what I came to tell you,” I blathered. “We’re not old after all. So I don’t want my real age to give people the wrong idea.”
“Exactly how many years are you planning to shave off your age?” Stephen questioned me in his lawyer voice. I hate his lawyer voice.
“Only 10,” I said casually.
“Dear, you are not going to lie about your age on a form I’m sending to our church,” Stephen retorted, his arms crossed over his chest. (Believe me when I say the word, “dear,” was completely incongruous with the delivery of the rest of his sentence.)
“Hey, I checked the rule book before I made my decision,” I countered, my arms crossed over my chest now. “No where does it say, “Thou shalt not deceive thine self.’ What’s a handful of years compared to an eternity? Less than a drop in the ocean, wouldn’t you agree?
“Besides,” I offered, in a more conciliatory tone. “If I’m not mistaken, you are now eligible for a mid-life crisis. Being married to a much younger woman might be just what the doctor ordered. And don’t worry, shaving a decade off my age still won’t put me back into my child-bearing years.”
Under great duress, I finally agreed to put my biological age on the paperwork for the church, but I’m still planning to deceive myself sometime in the very near future.
“Look at this,” I pointed out to Stephen. “The British research also suggests that old age now starts when a person is nudging 70.”
“Hmmm,” my husband contemplated. “In the course of an eternity, a decade really is nothing.”
Copyright © 2017 Patra Taylor
Patra Taylor 