EDITOR’S LETTER
WHAT’S MY AGE AGAIN?
During my fledgling years as a magazine journalist,
around the turn of the millennium, I was dispatched to Manchester’s Granada studios to interview the cast of
Cold Feet, a hit comedy drama that followed the social lives of a group of thirty-something friends.
The schedule was intense. I spoke to Robert Bathurst and John Thomson on set between scenes, then Hermione Norris over coffee; I made a pathetic attempt to flirt with Helen Baxendale and Fay Ripley in their trailers; afterwards, I set off to dinner at a swanky restaurant in the Northern Quarter where I would spend the evening with James Nesbitt. ‘Tonight, Toby, we shall drink Sancerre,’ he declared, glint in the eye, unmistakable Ulster brogue in full effect. ‘And we shall drink bloody lots of it.’
Have I ever written a paragraph that reads quite so outmoded? With references to 1990s telly totty sounding almost as atavistic as boozy journalistic assignments, quite possibly not. But this is in part the point. Because it was on the evening in question that I first gave serious thought to the nature of age.
Jimmy – as James inevitably became known a short while into our second bottle – had a theory that he was keen to share, possibly because he felt it explained his compulsion to get leathered on a school night. ‘All of us, I believe, exist as two ages throughout our lives,’ he said. ‘Now, my birth certificate says that I am 35. But in here,’ he pointed to his head, ‘I am 19. What’s more, I always will be. How old are you?’ ‘I’m 23,’ I said. ‘And how old do you feel?’ ‘Not sure. About 18, I guess.’ ‘You see?’ he cried. ‘That’s why we’re getting along so well! Let’s order another one…’
It’s a conversation I’ve recounted many times, not just to brag about my close relationship with démodé players in regional comedies, but because it’s one that continues to resonate. Despite being in my mid-late forties, I often feel decades younger – and not always or often in a good way, at least not any more. These days it’s less a feeling of callow invincibility than one of temporal dissonance. It can lead to imposter syndrome: do I deserve responsibility? Am I taken seriously? When am I going to feel like a grown-up? It can also cause a jolt when you catch your reflection in the mirror and realise you’re no longer the fresh-faced, indefatigable, lean machine you once were.
All this came to mind recently when I read an article in
The Atlantic about something called ‘subjective’ age. It concerned a Danish study from 2006 that posited much the same as Jimmy had been claiming in a sauvignonsoaked dining room some years earlier. Having surveyed 1,470 participants, the study, led by David Rubin, a professor of psychology and neuroscience at Duke University, concluded that adults over the age of 40 generally perceive themselves to be around 20% younger than they actually are. In most of us, it inferred, there is a gulf between objective age and subjective age.
The reasons for this are moot. It could simply be vanity. Or wishful thinking. But there are other more interesting psychological interpretations. Some people latch on to an age in their heads because it signals a momentous event in their lifetimes, such as losing a relative, or having a serious accident. Apparently, medieval theologians concluded that all people in heaven were 33, regardless of how old they were when they died, because that was the age of Jesus when he was crucified.
Many readers will be familiar with a tendency to cling on to formative adolescent years as they grow older, latching on to lived rites of passage, shared experiences, old films and playlists, first loves and so on. I’m the sort who follows Instagram accounts like@ grew_ up_ in_ the_70s_and_80s and forwards on pictures of Now
That’s What I Call Music cassette compilations and old polystyrene
Big Mac cartons. I also have a 17-year-old son who I blatantly exploit as a sounding board for my own teenage exploits and on whom I foist my personal musical preferences at the time, no matter that 30 years have elapsed since. In these moments, I like to think he sees me as a like-minded mate, if not a contemporary. My wife thinks I need to chill.
Of course, the age you feel in your head is not the same as the one you feel in your bones. In my mind,
I may identify as a Radiohead fan at the 1994 Reading Festival in 30-inch jeans. But as recent attempts to revive my teenage skateboarding obsession cruelly demonstrated, the male ego likes to write cheques the body can’t cash. This kind of realisation is hardly new – it’s otherwise known as a midlife crisis. The difference is it’s something that men are becoming less willing to accept.
That’s why we made this issue a Fit At Any Age special. Your body is not a machine. How it works and looks changes as you grow older. But that doesn’t mean it’s something to be accepted without a fight. Of the readers who contact me directly with thoughts on our output, the majority are men of a certain age on a journey to reclaim their best lives. Approached sensibly, and with smarts, that’s not egotistical – it’s aspirational. Throughout this magazine, we present the tools you need to work with your physique rather than against it, plus strategies to keep you mentally and emotionally fit, too.
Act your age, they like to say. Sure, I say. But which one?