Status Anxiety

14 January 2012

Looming decrepitude

Since turning 48 last October I’ve begun to obsess about getting old. In 21 months I’ll be 50 and by any definition that’s middle aged. For a man, turning 50 is a bit like turning 40 for a woman. It’s an unwelcome milestone. Adjustments have to be made, humiliations prepared for.

One form this obsession takes is incessantly monitoring myself for signs of ageing. For instance, there are the multiplying symptoms of early onset Alzheimer’s — or, as I prefer to think of them, ‘senior moments’. Sometimes these are quite endearing, such as when I find myself making two cups of tea even though I’m the only person in the house. But most of the time they’re distressing, like leaving the oven on all night. It won’t be long before all my meals have to be prepared by a professional carer.

Then there’s the burgeoning dyspepsia. I don’t mean heartburn — though, God knows, I suffer from that. Rather, I’m gradually turning into a curmudgeon. As each day passes, I add a new ‘pet peeve’ to my arsenal of irritants. The latest is the substitution of the word ‘cliché’ for ‘clichéd’, as in, ‘The problem with The Iron Lady is that it’s so cliché.’ Whenever someone makes this mistake I find myself muttering ‘clichéd’ under my breath, like some irascible old codger.

But, for some reason, the deterioration of my body bothers me more than the disintegration of my mind. Five years ago, I thought it was a bad omen when I found myself waiting until both shoelaces were undone before reaching down to re-tie them, so uncomfortable had I begun to find the act of bending over. Now I look back on those days with heady nostalgia. Not only can I not tie my shoelaces without sitting down, but if I bend over too quickly I let out an involuntary fart.

Why didn’t anybody warn me about this? It’s not just tying shoelaces — almost any physical exertion can produce a spasm of flatulence. The other day, I was sitting in a tube carriage when a beautiful brunette got on. She was laden with designer shopping bags and I decided to do the gallant thing and offer her my seat. Trouble is, it took such a gargantuan effort to get up that my dashing, Hugh Grant grin was accompanied by a loud ‘Ppppppft’. I don’t think she was impressed.

As for exercise of any kind, forget it. I used to run three miles a day, but now I can’t even sprint for the bus without thinking I’m going to have a heart attack. Last weekend, I stayed with some friends in Wales and they suggested we go for a stroll up the hill after lunch. When I demurred, they pointed out it would only take 20 minutes so, reluctantly, I pulled on some gumboots.

Five minutes later I was red-faced and panting, unable to keep up with their eight-year-old daughter. As I stood there trying to get my wind back and farting like a donkey my friends fell about laughing.

It doesn’t help having four exuberant children of my own. I can just about beat my six-year-old son if he tries to take me on in hand-to-hand combat, but if the three-year-old and four-year-old join in as well, I’m done for. It won’t be long before I’m no match for any of them. I can remember the day I beat my father in a race — I never looked at him in quite the same way again. All my children will shortly have that same experience.

The one consolation of becoming so useless and decrepit is that the prospect of death doesn’t seem quite so terrible. I’m not there yet, but I can imagine a time when my mind and body are failing so badly that oblivion will seem like a welcome release. Instead of going to bed and not being able to sleep for fear of never waking up again, I’ll greet each new dawn with a groan of resignation. Not another day tethered to a dying animal!

Having said all that, I’ve already begun planning my 50th birthday party. Wouldn’t want anyone to think I was embarrassed about getting old, even though it’s a constant source of embarrassment. The other day Caroline asked me what present I wanted from her and I suggested she pay for my breast implants to be removed. ‘Oh no, hang on a minute,’ I said, clutching my man boobs. ‘These are real.’ She was not amused.

Toby Young is associate editor of The Spectator.

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Jonathan

January 17th, 2012 4:10pm Report this comment

I'll come to your party, but if the build-up of gas in the alimentary canal is likely to be a problem, it may be safer to forgo the candles on the cake.

Yogi Chan

January 17th, 2012 5:22pm Report this comment

Toby, In light of this, you didn't even discuss how your surname has become ironic. ;)

Irascible Old Git

January 19th, 2012 5:18pm Report this comment

Much as I dread the fact that I, too, will have to rediscover the benefits of diapers in my dotage, I'm rather comfortable in what Caitlin Moran described as this “cheerfully rotting” phase of my life.

Chin up, old chap.

CarolD

January 19th, 2012 11:11pm Report this comment

Look on the bright side and enjoy the moment because it's all down hill from here. :\

Michael Pierce

January 23rd, 2012 10:59am Report this comment

Greetings Toby from another, but much older fart.
There is one advantage of readily available ‘botty burps’, they can be fired off to deter an approaching bore who you would prefer to avoid.

Daniel Quilp

January 25th, 2012 8:22am Report this comment

As being a quarter century ahead of you may I pass on some advice given, most kindly I like to believe,at your young age: inter alia - "never pass a toilet & never trust a fart".

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