There are various landmarks in a man’s life by which he measures moving from one age to the next. In my three decades plus change, I’ve blown through most of them like a drunk driver confronted by road blocks.
But I’m not talking about the good landmarks, like ‘having sex’, ‘graduating college’, ‘getting arrested for the first time’, etc. I’m talking about the depressing ones that just make you feel old. The first big one that hits a young man is realising he’s older than Playboy playmates (and he hasn’t had sex with one). The next stage is realising that most professional athletes are younger than him (and he still hasn’t become one). The next depressing one is when he catches himself checking out women’s fingers for wedding rings. Which is followed sharply by the discovery that he’s too old to make the list of ‘hot young prospects’ published in his industry’s trade magazine.
For me, the harshest landmark to accept came recently when it occurred to me that my lifelong fantasy of having sex with a yummy mummy no longer involves an older woman. I see beautiful young nymphs pushing strollers along the boulevards of Chelsea and Notting Hill and I say to myself, “surely that’s the nanny”. But no, it’s the mother.
The other day at the Harbour Club I found my absent-mindedly staring at a woman clad in figure hugging velour tracksuit straining to contain a knockout set of ta-tas. She was with her child and my yummy mummy fantasy pushed its way into my mind. I have to admit that I was entirely lost in an imaginary world where she had no clothes and lived on a trampoline. It wasn’t until she called out my name and greeted me with a hug that I and realised she was an old girlfriend. I’d gone out with her for almost three years (1996-1998). I had literally not recognised her. Why? Because my brain hadn’t accepted that I could have ex girlfriends not only married but with children. A clear case of denial. I know for a fact that, on council estates across the country, there are women my age with grandchildren… not that I have an ex-girlfriend who lives on a council estate.
The other event that snapped me out of any illusion about being young occurred while I was watching an episode of The Simpsons. I was barely into my third hour of continuous TV watching that Sunday evening when I nearly choked on my delivery sushi. Homer Simpson, facing a potentially fatal disease announced how unfair it was for his life to end at the age of thirty eight. Thirty-eight? That bald, beaten up, fat old man and I are, more or less, contemporaries. In terms of Sunday night viewing, I’d always imagined I had more in common with Sawyer, the golden haired rebel on Lost. Sadly I’m now more likely to pick up Marge Simpson than Evangeline Lilly. Then again, let’s be honest, even ten years ago – and at my peak physical fitness and misplaced arrogance – I was more likely to pick up Marge Simpson than Evangeline Lilly.
June 1st, 2008 at 9:39 am
How funny indeed! For me these first sad signs were top-models that turned to be younger than me and yeah athlets too…
July 7th, 2008 at 10:19 am
“The next depressing one is when he catches himself checking out women’s fingers for wedding rings.”
Quilty As Charged.