Coming Of Age

Will boomers grow old disgracefully?

When my dad died, it was sudden. Heart attack. No warning. When time had passed and I was trying to fill Dad’s shoes, my beloved, heartbroken mum stared at the floor and whispered, ‘We’re in a right pickle, aren’t we?’. I didn’t understand, so she elaborated; ‘How am I going to pay for everything?’. I explained she was fine financially (she lived frugally anyway). But what she meant was she’d never dealt with a bank, an insurance company, the gas, electricity, BT or TV licensing. My dad had done it all.

There was a flipside. When I was little, on the rare occasion my mum left me and dad alone, the only thing he could cook for lunch and dinner was coconut ice. Mind you, I can still taste that sugary, knobbly goo, so in terms of memorable feasts, fair play to him.

While not all elderly people age in the same way, I’ve seen plenty whose decline, if not always as dramatic, resembled my mum’s. Until she passed away in her late 80s, her world shrank dramatically. I tried so very hard to encourage her but she shied away from simple challenges. Some of my friends looking on predicted that when we got old, we’d likely be the same.

I’m not so sure. For a start, that traditional lifelong division of labour often meant when one partner died, the other couldn’t cope. In contrast, most of us have experienced living solo. It was no longer the norm to go from parental to marital home. After uni, I shared with groups of friends and in my thirties, I did a long, long stint alone. Indeed, the number of single occupied households in the UK is on the rise. Now I’m not saying my generation got the balance right. Far from it! But it did help me learn to handle a stopcock. And much, much more.

Of course, in 20 years’ time, many of us mature types don’t know whether we’ll have enough funds or there’ll be enough care resources to go round. We don’t know whether we’ll be infirm or suffer dementia. But the majority of boomers, by sheer numbers, are almost certain to redefine old age, partly because even if we grumble at our youth-centric culture, we still tend to align ourselves with a younger generation than ourselves. Unlike my parents who segued seamlessly into each decade in both dress and deed, we’ve been dragging our youth around with us all our lives. And we’re reluctant to let go. Put it this way, I can’t see my friends, if they’re still compos mentis, lining an old folks’ common room, doing as they’re told.

Even the fact we’re working longer, stretches middle age. And although we came late to the digital party, we’re closing that gap. Just look at daytime TV. Crammed with ads for online dating sites for the over 50s. Granted, they mingle with those for easy-access showers but we’ve confused the marketing execs you see – they can’t decide whether to help us bathe or bonk.

Extensive travel has shaped us too. At any one moment I can recall elephants in the African bush, chaotic roundabouts in Delhi, icebergs in the Arctic. Sounds a cliché but visiting other lands and cultures has widened my horizons. So even when my world shrinks, I’ll be starting from a considerably bigger base.

We’re also more demanding. Perhaps because boomers have long been indulged – we’ve never known the hardships my parents endured - we expect more from life. And we’re less intimidated too. A medical white coat doesn’t make my mind go blank or render me acquiescent. No, I’m straight onto Dr Google so I can pinion the poor consultant with scalpel-sharp questions.

And in simple terms, we won’t wear an old people’s uniform. Because we have no set look now. Take hairstyles. Decades ago, by 60, women had a perm. End of. Unless you were posh, in which case you cut it short. Today, anything goes. I have long hair and have no intention of cutting it yet. And while I find lilac and green streaks a rather obvious rebellion, I applaud the individuality. I’d rather be considered flamboyant than invisible.

So here’s how I imagine my geriatric self, providing I still retain my marbles. If my husband dies first I’m more likely to be travelling to Varanasi to scatter his ashes than working up the courage to cancel his standing orders. I’ll wear red when I’m out and kimonos when inside. And vintage shoes. When I’m in hospital, propped up in bed talking tablets, I’ll be referring to my iPad 29 on which I shall research the drugs they’ve put me on – then message my friends to smuggle in gin. Sure, I’ll probably end up in a right pickle. But it won’t be the same pickle as my mum’s. I hope it will have more bite.