I was leaving my Pure Pilates class, wishing as usual that I could pull off the leggings-and-Ugg-slippers combo that everyone else seems to favour. But shuffling outdoors in slippers was very much the look of the institutionalised when I was growing up and it’s hard to change the mindset. Instead I tie my New Balance shoelaces with all the dexterity of a five-year-old and am invariably one of the last to leave.
Another woman was leaving at the same time, so we naturally drifted into that awkward synchronised walk toward our cars. And then, from absolutely nowhere, she hit me with:
“Can I ask how old you are?”
Oh hell. I knew instantly where this was going. The thing I fear most: the “congratulations on your age” phase of life. Not quite the stage where people applaud you simply for still being in circulation, but the transitional era where every compliment comes with a qualifier like“…for your age.” or“…when I’m your age.”
And, of course, this comes a few weeks before a horribly large birthday number. One I’ve been lightly workshopping with friends, trying to gauge whether the number sounds as catastrophic out loud as it does in my head.
So when she asked, I made a sort of ugh sound and blurted out the number. And then being the ever-awkward Brit was horrified by the thought that perhaps she hadn’t asked my age at all. What if she’d said, “what time is it?” and I’d shouted my age at her like a confused pensioner? So, naturally, I made it worse by asking whether she had indeed asked my age.
She had.
And then she said:
“I hope I look as good as you at your age.”
Of course she meant it kindly. That’s the curse.
I love my Pure Pilates Lagree class. It’s challenging, the instructors are brilliant, and the studio is only five minutes from my house. But I don’t exactly fit in. I don’t own a matching bra-top-and-legging set in soft lavender or butter yellow. I don’t have pretty pastel grippy socks or a cheerful Hydro-Something insulated tumbler. My workout wardrobe is the same stuff I lift and run in. My black grippy socks have dog hair attached to them. And I’m probably the only person who swigs from a Hiball energy drink in the car beforehand rather than sipping a probiotic collagen peptides smoothie.
And I don’t have a ponytail.
In a room of twelve, I can pretty much guarantee I’ll be the only one with short hair (the occasional man included). Before class starts, we sit on our reformer machines facing the mirror, and I watch everyone perform that magical ponytail ritual: the head tip, the cascade of glossy hair, the artful gathering with a band, the elegant flip back into a perfect high pony. Then a quick adjustment of a couple of side tendrils. Ready to go.
Meanwhile, I adjust my fringe to try and cover more of my deep 11 lines.
And unlike them, I cannot sit cross-legged. We were taught at primary school how to sit in proper chairs, not on the floor like woodland sprites. If I attempt it now, I can usually push one hip down but the other one immediately pops up.. So I twist an arm behind my back and turn my neck to the side and hope someone is impressed by my loose interpretation of mobility.
People only ask how old you are if you look old. My ever-positive friend Rebecca insists it simply means I’m “killing it” in class. Yeah maybe but I’m killing it for my age. No-one’s pulling aside a 30-year-old dressed like a Fabletics catalogue to ask her age. They just exchange a knowing smile as they slip into their Uggs, secure in the knowledge that they have decades of collagen ahead of them.
But asking me how old I am? That’s different. That means I’m apparently exceeding the physical expectations normally reserved for someone who looks my age. Don’t argue with me on this, I may be spiralling but I also have obliques of steel.
So now what? Full face make-up before class? Cover myself in Frownies? Purchase a matching Alo set in winter frost?
Or maybe I just give into it and proudly announce to the class while in mid-lunge, ‘I’m sixty, you know’.
I was right. It sounds catastrophic.