Most of the time I feel about 46. Sometimes I feel 16.

Most of the time I feel about 46. Sometimes I feel 16. And that's not a good thing.

I decided recently, and deliberately, that I felt 46. I thought I ought to choose something - because I don't feel my real age, which has a 5 in front of it - so I chose something realistic. I think I can actually get away with this one, for a while at least.

The times they are a-changin’

In the year or so since I’ve been writing this blog, a few things have happened. I’ve turned 50*. I’ve kept it quiet. And I’ve started to get used to the idea.

Being in your fifties is definitely something that takes getting used to. But when you do, it’s not that bad. There are times when it feels like freedom.

The past decade has been interesting experience. There’s a lot of difference between being 40 and being 45. Being 45 did feel like a turning point. I wouldn’t quite say it’s all downhill from there but you start to realise you look different, and you know you creak more. After 45, you can’t pass as ‘young’ so easily. By the time you get to 50, that doesn’t seem to matter so much.

It’s a different sort of turning point, more mental than physical. And mostly positive. I read somewhere recently that 50 year olds are ‘complacent’. I hope I’m not. I might have the occasional ‘I did it my way’ moment but that’s down to relief as much as anything. I wouldn’t dare to be smug. I know this freedom won’t last; I know that the older you get, the more scope there is for bad stuff to happen. But I’m going to enjoy it while I can.

*I also turned 51.

What not to wear

You might not know it to look at me (I’ve inherited a puritan streak that prevents me from spending money on clothes) but I am actually quite interested in fashion. Also, as a true child of the ’80s, in what people choose to say about themselves through what they wear.

So I am always fascinated by the Guardian’s weekly feature ‘The close-up’, in which they interview a fashionable nonentity about their clothes. I wouldn’t slag off someone in print because I am basically a nice person, so I won’t mention the name of this week’s interviewee. I’ll just say it’s a middle-aged Sloane in designer labels who describes her style as ‘edgy’ and ‘bohemian’ and says: ‘I want to be rock’n’roll when I’m 60.’

Sorry, it doesn’t work like that. You’re 42 years old. You’re wearing white trousers. You name-drop Liz Hurley. You can’t possibly be rock’n’roll.

Telling people you’re rock’n’roll is like telling people you’re eccentric, or cool, or sexy. It’s the opposite of a self-fulfilling prophecy (a self-negating prophecy?). It automatically makes what you’ve just said impossible. Being rock’n’roll, or eccentric, or cool, or sexy can never be achieved by the self-conscious. Anyone over the age of 40 who says they are ‘rock’n’roll’ is in danger of becoming David Brent. Note to self: never use this expression in public ever again.

"You don't look it"

Tim Dowling in the Guardian is 45. He says:

I realise that 45 isn't any sort of particular milestone, that it doesn't count as old to anyone older, and that it doesn't count as young to anyone. It's just the age when you know for certain that anyone who says you don't look it simply isn't looking hard enough, or under bright enough light.

Welcome to the club, Tim. I’ve been bluffing people about my age for years but I’m starting to realise my bluffing days are drawing to a close. It’s a pity. I’d got used to hearing ‘you don’t look it.’ And believing it.
I could start wearing gloves. That might buy me a few more years...

Life begins at 44

According to the Guardian, 50 is the new 70. Or something. Stephen Moss’s article ‘It’s official: happiness resumes at 50’ comments on some research that shows you’re going to be the most depressed in your life at the age of 44. After that, apparently, it gets better. Not from here it doesn’t. Maybe it’s different for men. Moss says:

"The first 40 years of life is text, the rest is commentary," wrote Schopenhauer. .. I reached 50 last year, and far from being distressed by that supposedly defining moment, I've never felt better. I now accept that I am deep into my commentary period, and am enjoying it hugely.

Personally, I was pretty happy at 44. It felt good to be a grown-up at last. I would have quite liked to stop the clock then. There’s a lot of difference between being one side of 45 and being the ‘wrong side’. It’s embarrassing, for a start. And after a while, you begin realising that someone’s been stealing your life. It sounds as if Stephen Moss is happy to hand his over. I’m not ready to do that yet. I’m not ready for wisdom if that means accepting things. Because that means giving up. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel ready for that, even at 70.

Woke up this morning, I was older than Elvis

‘Woke up this morning, I was older than Elvis.’ Is it just me or is that a great first line for a song? Yes, you get the blues when you realise you’re not young any more.

I’ve never been able to write songs so I’m writing this instead.

I’ve been wondering what I would say if someone asked what my blog was about and came up with the following:

• How to stay hip when you are in your 40s, and whether it’s actually a good idea anyway.
• or, if I’m feeling pretentious: The cultural implications of approaching middle age.
• or, if I’m being really honest: What the hell is happening to me?

Elvis was the hippest person who ever lived. Well, maybe not all the time, but that doesn’t matter. It never bothered me when I passed the age Marilyn died (I’m not even sure what age that was) because I never identified with her. Maybe it’s because I was born when one of his songs was number one, but I always wanted to be Elvis Presley.

The problem is, when you’re older than Elvis, you can’t ask yourself ‘what would Elvis do?’. Because he never was 44. You’ve got to work it out for yourself. It’s one of the things this blog will be about. There might be others. I’ll see how it goes.