I turned 45 earlier this month. My husband asked me what I wanted to do for my birthday, how I wanted to celebrate. Memories of past birthdays ran through my mind: the group meals, the hired limo, the late night celebrations. But none of that interests me any more. All I wanted to do was go for an early morning walk, just the two of us, around our local country park. At age 45, this is who I am now.
Wild
I barely recognise the 25 year old girl in the picture above. I remember the weekend it was taken, well … snippets of it. It was my hen-do in Brighton, hence the penis paraphernalia. My aunt drove us there in an rusty minibus that broke down on the way back. We flashed fellow drivers on the motorway, delighted by the shock and disgust on (some of) their faces. At the services, we swayed, drunk and loud, between families; parents pulling children out of our way and glaring at us in silent indignation. We didn’t care, it made us laugh all the more. What else? We pole danced on a bus. My friend swapped her underwear for the stained boxers of a guy on a stag-do. We all congregated in the men’s bathroom at one point for reasons that I can no longer recall.
Late into the night a friend was overheard on the telephone complaining that we were too wild. If she’d thought me wild at 25, she’d have hated the younger version of me. Rewind a couple of years and copious amounts of cocaine would have been added to the mix. A couple of years before that, I’d likely have ended up having sex with a stranger, maybe even in that men’s bathroom.
Older and wiser
I’m aware that not everybody will relate to my past experiences. That’s not a bad thing, let me tell you, they come with a fair amount of shame. I look at the picture of 25-year old me and, amongst other things, I feel sad. It reminds me of how insecure I had been, how little I had valued myself, how used I had let myself be. Contrary to what I believed at the time, I was a still baby, I had no idea who I was. It would take me a long time to figure that out. In truth, at age 45, I’m still working on it.
I have come a long way in the past 20-years. I’ve done a lot of work to understand myself and what is important to me. I’ve learnt to say no to the things I don’t want to do. I care less (but still too much) what other people think of me. I speak up when I see an injustice even when it is hard. I’m also sober now, I have been for almost 5-years. Before, that would have been unthinkable to me. What fun is there to be had without alcohol? I can’t stress enough how freeing it has been to let it all go.
Joy
On my 45th birthday, we headed to the park around 6am. My husband had made me a flask of tea which he carried in his jacket pocket. The park was empty of people, the air was fresh, the wildlife abundant. Everywhere I looked I saw joy. The grey hopping rabbits (especially the babies), the family of swans gliding across the lake, the hundreds of years old trees that I just had to hug. 25-year old me would have missed it all. She would have needed the grand gesture, the gifts, the company of others.
Over the years, I have come to realise that I don’t need drink or drugs or parties or stuff to be happy. That the joy I thought I was getting from all of that was fake. Real joy, it turns out, is to be found in the simple things: in nature, in time spent with the people you love, in travel.
So far, getting older has been fantastic, which is the exact opposite of how I thought it would be. In fact, the older I get physically, the younger and more carefree I feel inside. The anxiety I have always felt about ageing is slowly dissipating; now I’m excited for the next 20-years and the 20 after that.
