Ten Ways That Being 72 Is Great…

Just in case you're dreading it.

Yes, it was my birthday last Friday and I’m 72. I am going to say that being 72 is pretty damn good. There are so many aspects of being 72, that I’m grateful for.

1) I am still alive.

2) It’s peaceful here in comparison with so many former ages. All that angst has melted away. I am still anxious from time to time – I have abandonment issues despite my exploration and acknowledgement of them – but in general the weather is temperate. I used to rage and fight and worry. In fact, I couldn’t imagine a life where there wasn’t a continuum of outrageous storms but it is here. The internal waters are calmer. Phew.

3) I am more me than I have ever been. That means I have people around me that I can be more of me more of the time. I don’t have to swallow myself back inside. For example, I play tennis three times a week and my partners know me well enough to be there for me when I’m upset and vulnerable. And I for them. This week, something my son said to me – disturbed me enough for me not to sleep. I arrived on the tennis courts with not a smidgeon of the combative spirit I usually ooze. Tears even appeared as I hit the ball. And I was thankfully regaled with warmth and empathy. In the past, I would have postponed the game. And okay, I did get slaughtered in tennis terms but I did get outside and my partner was lovely to me. I didn’t have to hide myself away.

4) The loss of libido. Is it a big deal or not? It happened gradually and mostly I am content about it. Because I’m not always hankering after sex and sexual attention. That’s a relief. And here’s the loss of libido myth – just because I’ve lost that core sexual yearning, doesn’t mean that I don’t like sensuality and sexuality. And I can have orgasms. It’s just all a lot more languorous. And I know some women have decided to use HRT and vaginal oestrogen to keep themselves stimulated in this way but so far I have opted to just be au naturel with a little almond oil.

5) I am still dancing. OMG I am so grateful that I can move my body. I don’t really have any aches and pains. I can roll across the floor. And I absolutely love it. Dance is one of my richest places to occupy. Okay, I’m no longer – well not often – an evening dancer, I’m more of a morning and afternoon dancer. And that’s okay with me. Cuba really is my favourite place to dance, there you can dance anywhere – by the sea, in the street in Havana – and musicians appear. Plus no-one thinks I’m too much, it is welcomed. Everyone joins in from the young to the old. Gosh, it’s such a delight. And a lot of mischief goes down.

6) Developing an active relationship with death might sound morbid but it’s rammed with vitality. The more I plan for death, the more my urge to live now and well is increased. I write poems about death – I’ve just written one called Moving To Love’s Other Shore which is from the perspective of my deathbed and it’s upbeat, at least at the end. I did a dance project/film about death, I often discuss death and dying with my son, I’m crazy about Kensal Green Cemetery. I acknowledge death in every way that I can without it being unnatural. It’s a way for me to embrace the idea of my death even if it’s a long way before the actual event. Death is part of life and life is so much richer that way.

7) Invisibility. I have a love/hate relationship with visibility. No, men don’t chat me up any more. Although to be honest, last week – I was in a I am determined to give compliments to people who do challenging hard work – I went up to a refuse collector and told him what a magnificent job he was doing. He pulled his balaclava off and gave me a very sexy look– when was I coming round for tea, he asked! I hooted with laughter at his flirtatiousness. He was probably in his 60s! And I do make myself more visible by piling rose clips on my head like a wayward British Frida. However, I am invisible mostly to younger people and men. And you know what - I don’t mind. The youngers can have the visibility bit, it’s their time in that kind of sun. I’m in a different stage of the sun. The sunset rather than rise. And it is quieter but also colourful.

8) New adventures. Now I know you can still keep on having adventures. It’s your spirit that counts here. And curiosity. My newest adventure is doing an MA in Poetry Writing. It is not easy but it is stimulating and I feel full of ideas and creative projects. I’d been thinking about applying for a few years – my last venture in the academic world was fifty years ago. Having a cohort of other eager students to discuss stanza lengths and line breaks with is heavenly. It feels fresh, and I feel fresher for it.

9) I can pace myself. When I was younger, I was always the last to leave the party. I simply had to drain every dreg of excess from the situation. I couldn’t leave early. These days I know just how much I can take in terms of my well-being. I hate that word but you know what I mean. My balance in life. The MA cohort always go to the pub after our session, I find myself not wanting to go. I don’t want to drink alcohol because I prefer to be able to play tennis in the morning. And after intense sessions, I just like to go off and be alone. I’m delighted that I can actually do that.

10) Life doesn’t have to be full of extraordinary moments. At last, I can be happy with if not an ordinary life – whatever that is but I’m not retired, I’m not doing a 9 to 5 etc – then a much less desiring of the intense and dramatic. For example, there was a time in the late 90s – I was in my mid-40s – when I thought it was ravishingly exciting to be phoned by the man that I was sometimes having sex with and thought I was wildly in love with… and he demand that I get in my car with a steak and drive to Milton Keynes for him. I was so deluded that I did it. He was an alcoholic and there was absolutely no fun, although there was some drunken sex, involved. These days, I’m profoundly content to visit a bird hide in North Wales with my partner and watch the spectacular blue streak that is a kingfisher in flight…