Standing Room

30 May 2009

Last week I celebrated a big birthday.

When I was younger (old habits obviously die hard and you have to forgive me for not automatically writing ‘when I was young’ — it’s just going to take a bit more practice), I used to find a particular greeting card amusing. It was a cartoon of a demented-looking career woman. She had one hand clutching her briefcase and the other was held up to her mouth in exaggerated dismay. The caption read: ‘Oh my God, I forgot to have children.’ It made me feel quietly smug as I’d remembered to have my three children by the time I was 30 and it was the career I’d opted to shove on to the back burner. I thought I had nothing much to fear at turning 50. It was just another number.

However, logging onto Facebook on the morning of my birthday quickly swiped the misplaced self-congratulatory smirk off my face. I discovered my laptop had been infected by a cruel little virus. Gone were all those pop-up advertisements for free laptops, extra mobile minutes and dodgy dating services. Gremlins had electronically age-adjusted and micro-targeted me (their new marketing demographic) overnight and replaced my familiar sidebar with chirpy ‘adverts of gloom’. Facelifts-in-a-bottle, herbal HRT, free gifts for the over-fifties, haemorrhoid potions and laser eye clinics were suddenly all reaching out to embrace me. I’d crossed the Rubicon. My 22-year-old son then announced he was off to have his Russell Brand-like locks pruned in readiness for my birthday party, only to return two hours later in a fury. He felt his new haircut made him look insanely young. I begged to differ.

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