The Other Side of Life

At only twenty-four I know that I would hardly be described as an ‘older woman’ – but then why do I feel like the new Mrs. Robinson?

Let me clarify that this feeling is not prompted by any desire to date younger men, I am merely commenting on the social aspects of growing older, when you’re still deemed young (by some).

That is, we grow in stages. When you’re five anyone about the age of ten is older and wiser. When you’re fifteen people above twenty and below thirty-five are far cooler and more sophisticated than yourself, and those above thirty-five are in line with your parents, that is, they’re just old and cranky. But when you’re in your twenties things get a little confusing. We start to judge people on a more individual basis. They’re younger for their years if you know them well and admire them, but if you don’t like them they suddenly seem wrinkled and grey even if they’re only twenty-nine.

But these stages also go in reverse. And herein lays my dilemma. For the greater part of my life a boy in his late teens and early twenties was ‘cool and sophisticated’ and definitely crush-worthy. But now that I am in fact older than this bracket it would appear I need to shift my vision. This isn’t entirely devastating given that there are lots of nice (looking) men in their late twenties and thirties – any older and they’re closer to my Dad’s age than me – but it would imply that I need to give up my ‘boys’.

I was faced with this horrible prospect over Christmas when, at a party with friends, a gorgeous boy of twenty-one happened my way. Okay, maybe I circled him but only because he was just so divine! And even though there’s only three years between us, when it’s the girl who’s older (and she’s not Demi Moore) it just seems unfair to the little chicks climbing the age ladder that we in our twenties take dibs all-round.

Never mind the object of my affection had a girlfriend in the next room, he was eye-candy for me and nothing more… But what saddens me is that for the first time in my life I felt ‘old’. I was the cougar in the room while the other girls were kittens. And now I can’t seem to stop eyeing out little-uns. On the plane of the way home I watched The December Boys (2007) and started to think that eighteen-year-old Daniel Radcliffe was a bit-of-alright! Is this a sickness or merely paranoia? And heaven help me when I hit thirty!