When I told my niece that I’d soon be turning 27, she wrinkled her judgemental little girl nose at me and said “Ugh, you’re going to be old.” Come to think of it, she’s said that pretty much every year since she could talk.
Now that my birthday has passed and I am truly one year older, it’s time for change. It was with a heavy heart that I updated my short bio at the bottom of this article to reflect my new age. (Please do take a look when you’re done reading this piece. Ta very much.) The reluctance was not because I don’t like being 27, but because it feels very final to state it online like this. This is my age. This is Sparta.
I don’t personally think 27 is old. I don’t think 37 is old, to be honest, and neither did that old woman (man, sorry) in Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Compared to youth, being ‘old’ is a lot more subjective. There’s a minimum age that humans can actually be, of course, and legally we only become adults at 18. Anyone under the age of 11 will consider someone in their mid-20s to be ‘old’ at that point, the 20-somethings think of those in their 40s as ‘old’, and so on. But we don’t have a cut-off age at which ‘the old’ as one single, slightly greying entity are legally obliged to shuffle off into the darkness en masse.
Besides, age brings experience – some of it not so fun, but some of it amazing. If someone had told the 17-year-old me that a decade later I’d be living the independent life in London, renting a flat and braving the daily commute in a sardine tin, I’d have laughed. Or possibly cried.
As a teenager I was not remotely independent, worldly or comfortable in my own skin. I never wanted to break away from the comforts of home and my Mum’s mollycoddling. Who would have boiled pasta for me? The prospect of living alone in a crowded, stressful and disconcertingly grease-stained city like this would have given me a nervous breakdown. I didn’t leave home until I was 20, and even then it was to university halls a 25-minute drive away. And I went back with my laundry every fortnight.
Now, though, as a woman approaching 30 with genuine enthusiasm, I can’t imagine moving or having to share my space. The teenage Kady would probably look at me with something approaching genuine fear instead.
It’s said that age is just a number, and now that my main ‘milestone’ birthdays are long behind me I agree. I don’t feel that much different at 27 than I did at 26. Maybe my fringe is a wee bit longer, but that’s about it.
A little later this year, my condescending niece will turn 10. She’s finally getting into double figures, and I fully intend to surprise her on her birthday with a loud, embarrassing roar of “Ugh, you’re really OLD.” Just as a joke, mind. I might even draw some fake wrinkles on her face for the hell of it. After all, you only live once.
