We had a party on Saturday night. Good, good friends, old and new, got together, got on, got a little drunk and had a very good time. One of the reasons we had the party, although we didn't let on to anyone because we didn't want fuss and presents, was that both Martin and I have just had birthdays. I've always enjoyed the process of getting older because I like most of the changes in myself very much. As I get older I get more patient, wiser, calmer, more confident and more tolerant. I know myself better. I like the fact of my friends getting older. I like the fact that B and Y used to be two other kids in my department at university, both going out with others. Then they became B&Y, a couple fresh out of university and embarking on big careers. Then Y became pregnant, long before I was in a grown-up relationship. Then she had her third as I had my first. Now she's experiencing teenage with her oldest, and experiencingg it in a good way. We can talk about our children as well as our old friends. We've all mellowed with age, but when I put a Roxy Music CD on early in the evening while we're all still sober, B and I, much to the embarrassment of my children, will still strike a pose and sing at the tops of our voices. And no one else takes a blind bit of notice.
I like seeing my university friends talking with my new Mum friends from school and my teacher colleagues and my book club friends and my neighbours. These days I associate with those I wish to asociate with. I don't feel I have to know the important people, the influential people, I don't have 'duty' friends. I know myself quite well and I'm generally happy. This morning I realised that I haven't even thought about that extra number on my age. It's not an issue. The kids at school asked me how old I was and I told them. They didn't believe me. Which was gratifying...
I'm more concerned about weight than age. Being thin at 50, when it eventually comes, will make me far happier than when I was fat at 35. I'm going to the gym tonight for the first time in about two years. This is not as a result of my birthday but because of Martin's. I've bought him the services of a personal trainer for his birthday and he's become a thing demented, exercising every day and being abstemious to the point of onsession about what he eats. As a result he's lost about 5kg in 2 weeks. I am shamed into action...
This weekend I passed in the street a couple who live in the area whom I've seen around for many years. The man is grandfather to a child who used to be in my son's playgroup years ago and was obviously called upon for some grandfatherly duty. He was a sprightly chap, with a shock of white hair and a handlebar moustache. I watched them on Sunday walking up a slight hill, he slightly bent now, and walking with noticeably more difficulty, but supported by his wife. They were both silent with the effort of the incline. I had a slight pang as I watched, thinking that there is a time when growing older turns into growing old. I hope that I'll see the benefits of that when it happens, if indeed I recognise it, and I hope that Martin and I will be supporting each other on the uphill climb.
At the weekend I was also faced with evidence, if any were needed, of the advantages of growing old. The husband of a cousin of mine has just died. He was several years ounger than me. I don't know why he died, and to be honest it's not important. But I feel desperately for my cousin and her two small children. What she must be going through doesn't bear thinking about.
To paraphrase Woody Allen, getting old's not so bad when you consider the alternative.
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