Fifty and growing younger

Ten years ago we devised a day of challenges for my eldest brother, before he was deemed eligible to become a respectable 40 year old.  These included crossing a river without boat or bridge (he swam it, backpack laden with bricks), learning something new (riding a unicycle), doing something illegal (painting a smiley face on a mini roundabout) and hoopla-ing a lamppost with a bicycle tyre – except he resorted to shinning up and down it.

Now he’s about to turn 50 and he’s getting nervous.  Trustingly he has still allocated us a day to abuse him, but how much should we take advantage?  I remember my mother suggesting that she and I should hold a joint 21^st/50^th birthday party - and to my utter shame, I thought Are You Mad?  Thankfully I kept quiet, but it really did seem like the other end of life, and nothing to celebrate.  Now it seems we’re far too young to be anywhere near it, and the closer it draws, the more my crime grows.

So when 14 year old Jamie teases me about my age, I remind myself that the perception of age is not a linear scale.  The gaps are much larger when you’re young, but the older you get, the more they shrink.  My mother’s no longer here to grow younger, but my father has stopped ageing and two of my favourite people have celebrated their 65^th wedding anniversary.

Age is only a handle that strangers use – like the cow (heifer?) at the makeup counter commenting on my mature skin.  And my main concern about ageing is realising that life is no longer infinite.  So time to stop faffing if I want to fit everything in.

Which reminds me.  My brother’s only going to be 50, so what’s it to be?  Tightrope walking or high trapeze?