My eldest son Stephen graduated on Friday. At the same time, my youngest son, Michael, is about to embark on the same journey, starting his own university course in September, hopefully.
I am fiercely proud of their achievement, particularly Stephen, who will soon be settling into a new job.
His adventure is just beginning.
At the graduation ceremony, I watched as lots of people were honoured, all dressed in gowns and hats surrounded by loving families and friends. As I applauded each and every one of them, I looked around at the other proud people smiling and clapping – and one minor negative thing was gnawing away at my delight.
It was a thought and it grew stronger. The thought was:
“Boy, am I getting old!”
I see younger colleagues at work with young children, each of whom are doting parents of children ranging from new born babies to those just about to enter their teenage years. And I remember when my two boys were that age.
It seems like a lifetime ago.
My lads are grown men, with their own outlook on life, their own opinions, their own likes and dislikes and their own plans for the future.
|Three Men and a Lady|
I am so proud of them but at the same time, I miss that childlike innocence that made me laugh yet at the same time allowed me to become a child again. Seeing the two of them in suits on Friday made me realise that I no longer have an excuse to allow my mental age to manifest itself into physical behaviour without looking like a complete idiot.
What’s more, in my fifties I am aware that the next major stage for me is retirement. Okay, that is quite far away – a good fifteen years – but when that happens I will officially be an old git.
|Me in fifteen years?|
I looked around some old blog posts and when I started writing this drivel I was forty five years old (it’s amazing that I am now in my eighth year of bloggery).
What has happened to the time?
In another eight years I will be in my sixties. All my droopy bits will droop even more. My wild and feral hair will look like a mad old tribble and my old face look like the Grand Canyon.
|My hair in my sixties?|
How scary is that?
I do have one advantage though. I don’t actually look my age so maybe – just maybe – people won’t think I’m a pensioner. The other benefit of having a young looking face is that my two lads have both inherited by youthful countenance. As I stood at the bar on Friday having just bought a celebratory round of drinks, both of my lads were questioned about their age.
“Does that annoy you?” I asked. “It used to annoy me.”
Stephen just laughed as he put his driving license away.
“I’ve been used to it for four years now,” he said. Michael agreed but at the age of nineteen, he shrugged and said “And I’ll still have to get used to it I suppose.”
While the ageing process may seem depressing, I think it’s a good thing to keep the inner child alive, the one that has made me embarrass my own kids by behaving immaturely. I am still young enough to just about get away with behaving like a child sometimes and I love it when I am able to.
Mrs PM constantly reminds me of my immaturity.
I think that it’s fun to release that inner child every so often and I don’t ever plan to stop. I think that as long as you have a youthful outlook on life your mind and body will follow and make you appear to be younger – which is an added bonus for me because I don’t look my age.
I just hope that I don’t suddenly wake up one morning having aged drastically overnight.
Actually, scratch that! I don’t really care. As long as I’m happy and I can still walk around without pain I’ll be delighted.
Even if I can’t walk around without pain, I’m sure that I’ll be able to lift up a laptop and release my inner child on this blog.
That will do nicely.