This is 60
I have entered my bus pass era and I'm not mad about it
I have been 60 for a couple of days now. It’s not too bad. People have showered me with gifts, told me I look amazing and invited me to visit them using my bus pass.
Very excited about the bus pass.
State pension would also be grand - it’s currently £221.20 a week, pretty sweet compared to freelance journalism - but I’ve another seven years at the snark face before that kicks in.
There is no denying that being 60 is a thing. Of all the birthdays with a zero at the end, it’s the weightiest so far. Sixty is, inarguably, old. Or at the very least, deep into middle age. Not older, as in hot older babe, a schtick I have been pulling off with variable success for the last 20-odd years. Not elderly, yet, phew. Just old.
What old means is up for debate. The “advances” of the 21st century mean there are many different ways to be 60. Botox, filler, retinol, collagen, cosmetic dentistry, beauty salons offering walk-in waxing and threading services, the box dye aisle in Superdrug, HRT, Spanx, M&S finally stocking clothes women want to wear, high intensity interval training and vegetables are just some of the developments that mean we can be more And Just Like That than Golden Girls.
If we want to. And can afford the time and hard cash. And - this is the rub for me - can be bothered.
This is good in many ways. As a young person I looked at what I thought of as old people and wondered: where did they buy those lumpy raincoats that accommodated their humpy backs and the sheepskin bootees that zipped up the front? What was in their “shoppers”, capacious bags that was neither handbag or holdall? Why was their hair so often in curlers? When did they actually take them out?
BhS and C&A - RIP - stocked the macs and the bunion-friendly footwear. The bags held a massive purse containing cash, family photographs and crumpled receipts. Possibly a Provident cheque. Maybe also a large print library book and a bag of mint imperials.
Still no idea about the curlers. But I miss the old ladies of my youth, their whiskery hugs and birthday gifts of bath cubes. Their blissful ignorance of pilates, protein shakes and the sculptural clothing of Cos.
Do I want to be one? No.
Do I resent the hard work of the alternative? Would I like to wear a brushed nylon nightie, put my teeth in a glass and lie in bed reading Georgette Heyer while eating chocolate limes? Sometimes, as I cram the day’s news via a podcast, attack my jowls with a gua sha and worry that I didn’t jet wash my gums vigorously enough, I would.
My late mother, who was 38 when she had me, gave me mixed messages about what to expect. She had short grey hair and wore tweed suits or nylon sacks. Other kids at school often mistook her for my granny.
For her, makeup was “clart” and women who dressed in inappropriately youthful clothes were “mutton dressed as lamb”. Getting old was something to be tholed - one of her favourite words. I have no memories of her doing anything else.
At the same time, she had no time for old people things: ornaments, bingo, singsongs, garden centres if she was not buying plants. One of her favourite TV shows was Breaking Bad.
How have I interpreted these mixed messages?
Clart is fine. Fun even, when I can be bothered. (Although I had hoped that science would have developed self-washing brushes by now.)
The mutton question is a vexed one. On one hand I will batter anyone who suggests that I, or any other woman, should not wear shorts, a mini skirt, a bikini or anything else she damn well pleases. On the other hand, I personally do not wear these things very often or in very public places.
Going to TRSMT in a mesh body suit and spangly false eyelashes is great when you are 16. But extreme looks age out. Just as I no longer buy my earrings in Claire’s Accessories, I no longer wish to walk along Argyle Street in denim cut-offs that don’t cover my bottom.
Maybe I just got all the crazy out of my system before I was 20 and am ready to embrace my navy blue era.
Hair colouring, face injecting and tooth improving are out the question and not just because I hear Mum’s judgemental voice from beyond the grave. They are just far too exhausting for lazies like me. Anything that involves making appointments months in advance and drinking tea through a straw are never going to happen. I read smugly of people going to Turkey or Bulgaria for disastrous dental and surgical makeovers safe in the knowledge that I would never, ever be that organised.
I can manage yoga, kefir and keeping up with what to wear with my trainers. Just. I don’t expect these to keep me young, that would be unrealistic and weird. And I don’t actually want to be young and have to make mistakes and marry useless men all over again.
I am perfectly happy being my age with low maintenance hair, enough energy to get to the bus stop and flexibility to get up out of my seat without making a low-pitched groan. And fantastic socks.
In theatre news: a revival of David Greig’s The Events at Cumbernauld Theatre left me jangled. Even I am not hard hearted enough to dislike Come From Away and I was really impressed with Anna/Anastasia at Play, Pie and a Pint.
Fab post. Mine is looming in 2 weeks' time and like you I have pretty mixed feelings about it. Also I can't quite believe it - not because of how I look but because, well, flippin SIXTY. But the bus pass - yesss!
I am not far off the same birthday and a few things I am holding on to are short running skorts, pink camo trousers and long hair in a pony tail. I think 60 is much, much younger than it used to be so I hope it’s still ok to rock the above attire, but it is still a daunting number. As many others have said, you look fabulous at 60. I am also with you on the cosmetic improvements. No time or money for them… I hope more of us plan to age gently and without recourse to major cosmetic extras. Thanks for writing the article.