If 60 is the new 40, then 40 is the new fuck off. Perhaps chill with the telling me that I am the new grey and it really doesn’t matter that I’m not the new black anymore because I can still be relevant (to my newly grey peers, at least) in some small, cosy, face-creamy kind of a way.
Because our age is no longer sign-posted by our interests. I’m not the one Googling insulation, how to hide grey roots and waterfall cardigans. I’m the one buying Topshop sunglasses: nothing muttony about that, I just can’t lose another pair of 200 £’ers because it makes me feel like a tool. I’m the one downloading the Justin Bieber tracks. It’s not so much that I’m an actual Belieber but I need something to work out to that isn’t FutureAge. I’m the one buying the white Adidas Superstars but actually they are for my 73 year-old mother’s birthday. Because 74 is the new ‘up yours’. Research is compelling, data is beautiful but prescriptive pigeon-holing is boring and inaccurate. It is dawning on the world that grown-up women may not just be ‘busy working mums’ or ‘cougars‘. This is a demographic without borders – it evolves as it ages. It doesn’t check out. It remains in discovery mode. Sorry for being confusing and intricate but, hey, that’s the way the cookie now crumbles.
Any 80 year-old will tell you that she feels 18 and now, by virtue of the inter-web, we can actually look at what 18 year-olds look at. If we want to. Which we sometimes do but often don’t. Because most 18 year-olds are silly. But look at me: I’m the new fuck off. And if that confuses you then just write me off. If you dare.