Age concern

I’m sure all parents will have noticed that all children want to be older. They eke out the quarter years, the third years, the half years and the nearly years in an ever present impatience to rack up the score, as if being young is something to be ashamed of. Along with remarks like "I’m not a baby, I’m a boy" or "I’m not a little boy, I’m a big boy" it makes parents realize that age is power to the child. So, how come all that changes in the adult world?

I am one of those people who often assumes that other people are older than me, only to be astounded to find that they are in fact younger. Naturally I wonder whether the reason has to do with them or with me ... or both. In other words, are they mature for their age, or am I immature? Or could it be that they take life more seriously than I do? Or could it be that they are just squares, bores, measured, safe?

Then I hit on a theory that made perfect sense. Thinking back to my own formative years, I realized that the first time I lost my desire to be older was when I was in my early twenties. My theory goes that I will therefore remain that age mentally for the rest of my life and that others must have their own mental age cut-off point. Presumably that point varies between people, so that some only reach their teens, while others their late twenties, thirties, forties even, before the alarm bells start ringing. It’s a scary thought, but evidently it works pre-emptively too, explaining why some of my school chums wore three-piece suits and smoked pipes while discussing current affairs. Middle-aged minors.

So, there it is. I am faced with the prospect that my own children may one day be older than me in mind. I am, I concede, an adolescent trapped in an aging body.

By Gerard Cheshire