Old? Not a chance – we fiftysomethings are in our prime
‘Rediscover what you have to do while you are still young enough to do it’
Can it really be true that the middle-aged are the most miserable, least fulfilled section of the population? Maybe I’m the exception to the rule, but then I’m wearing a jaunty yellow summer scarf indoors.
I am on such tippety-toppety emotional form, in fact, that despite the England match, I haven’t yet secretly wolfed down the end-of-term Lindt chocolates destined for my nine-year-old’s teacher.
I’m not sure where the people who do surveys go to find down-in-the-mouth Brits, but no bowler-hatted gent from the Office for National Statistics has interviewed me about my optimistic Lebensanschauung.
Then again, pollsters were conspicuous by their absence when my Edinburgh-born husband spotted that local youth riding his bike at twilight “without any bloody lights again” last week, which would definitely have skewed the figures.
But you know, as long as trains run on time, contractors turn up when they should and the postman gets here before 10am, then all’s well in my husband’s 57-year-old world.
Except they never do, obviously. Not one of ’em. And where I sigh in surrender and tune out, he gives vent and mutters darkly about emailing somebody about it. But would I describe either of us as miserable and unfulfilled? Yes, on occasion, but seldom together, without good (which is to say, very bad) reason.
We tend to divvy up the angst; he sweats the small stuff and goes inexplicably ballistic over a faulty printer or temperamental white goods. It’s my job, apparently, to lie awake at night fretting over our interest-only mortgage, my 16-year-old’s imminent GCSE results and whether I might be happier running a smallholding in Pembrokeshire.
But in society at large, there appears to be a deeper malaise. The ONS this week claimed that those in the 45-to-59 age group are glummer than Generation Rent, who fritter away their flat deposit on avocados and beard grooming while blaming us for house prices and the state of the labour market. We are also gloomier than Baby Boomers and Silver Surfers, who have retired from the rat race and every other needlessly competitive endeavour to enjoy their grandchildren and savour their final-salary pensions.
Then there’s Generation Z, the so-called “digital natives” born after 2000 whose first babysitter was mummy’s iphone (mea culpa). Since then, they’ve been left virtually unnoticed in their bedrooms, negotiating their way through the maze of cyber bullying, slut-shaming, gaming addiction and hardcore porn.
But even they are happier with their lot than their parents. It’s quite a relief, in truth, because it means we didn’t mess up as badly as we feared – but how did we fall so far behind in the happiness stakes?
I exaggerate, but only to illuminate. The most contented section of society comprises young married couples with children and an affordable newbuild, spending carefree days laughing and smiling with their golden retriever, like a family in an insurance advert.
But we also know that this family doesn’t entirely exist; it’s an aspirational, comforting trope.
Entre nous, I would have placed money on millennials being unhappier because they’re always banging on about the unfairness of life. I say this from a place of love (some of my favourite nieces and nephews are millennials), but Deliveroo, Wi-fi and Instagram filters don’t constitute inalienable human rights.
Snowflake phrases, such as “I don’t feel comfortable about that…”, are utterly meaningless unless your flatmate is dealing drugs or co-opting you as a getaway driver for a jewellery heist. Feeling uncomfortable is part of the human condition, not a valid excuse to insist on safe spaces at university or the redaction of culturally insensitive lines from Shakespeare.
And while there’s pleasure to be had in puritanism, the kind almost insisted upon by censorious millennials, a midweek gin and tonic does not mark the start of a Hogarthian decline into alcohol-soaked rakishness.
Perhaps what we need here in the beleaguered middle-age is new aspirations. Instead of ruminating over our failures, we should manage (even lower) our expectations – and, above all, stop dwelling on the past.
So you never got to have a child delivered in a hospital suite, your son’s gap year has lasted nearly three and your brother-in-law has not only dug out a mega-basement but paid for it in cash. Let’s get real. You can’t alter what’s happened and you’ll regret wishing away your middle years.
Invest in health, seek fulfilment, start a business – middle-aged entrepreneurs are on the rise – rediscover what you love to do while you are young enough to seize the day and do it. Fiftysomething disillusionment is only a cliché if we allow it to be; nobody alive would swap their hard-fought journey to self-knowledge for the calamitous misadventures of youth.
We might feel old, but we’re not. A great many of us will live into our 80s so right now we really are in our prime. Statistically speaking, if you hang on in there until you’re 59, things will start to look up again. In the meantime, silly though it sounds, a jaunty scarf can work wonders.