There are certain things
in life that reveal themselves to you gradually, like realising that your shoes
have got too small for you, or that your choice of words has become almost identical
to that of people you work with. Another example of this is your character: your likes,
dislikes, habits and hobbies – are carved out of your experiences after years
of trying things which were novelties at first, but which then became
familiar, and were lumped together to form your personality. Age is also one
such thing. Despite birthdays being the conventional mark by which you measure
your time on this forlorn planet, they are mere numbers, statistics that don’t
show a fraction of what lies behind them. Besides the annual reminder of how
old/young you ought to consider yourself, age manifests itself in a number of
curious ways.
If you’re a man, hair is
usually a good indicator of where you’re at in your long, desolate journey
towards your chequered flag. What I find funny is how upset people get when they
see their hair change in volume or colour. It has almost become a rite of
passage to lament a solitary grey strand you discover whilst examining your
youthful yet diminishing features against a faithful, four-cornered friend.
Worse still, when you pat your head only to realise that a thick mop no longer cushions
it. Rather, your scalp is nearly visible underneath a faint, rapidly-thinning
clump. Either way, your heart sinks with dread as you convince yourself that
you’re not that old yet.
Another common signpost
you should look out for is people you once considered to be children. It’s both
heartening and horrifying when you bump into lower classes from your school,
only to be dwarfed by their height and shocked by their age. The ten year-olds
are now double that age, and, more unnervingly, you’re a good five years ahead
of them. Life, it seems, doesn’t stop. As you grow older, so does everybody
else. It may sound like a pretty lame realisation, but for me it is a constant
surprise when I see former children who have become ‘grown-ups’.
A less universally
acknowledged sign of the ageing process is when football players you idolised
during your teens become mere studio spectators and pundits, or actually evolve
into coaches and managers. For me, watching Ryan Giggs take temporary charge of
Manchester United, counselled by other members of the Reds’ famous class of ’92
– was exciting from a purely footballing viewpoint, but a sobering reminder
that more than twenty years had passed since he made his debut for the club. The Lion King was released two decades ago, too. If footballing history doesn't stir you, perhaps Simba's birth will.
Though I didn’t follow the
World Cup as avidly as I may have done in the past, I was slightly relieved every
time a commentator said the name of a player who I knew from yesteryear. These
included Messi, Van Persie and the Portuguese Ronaldo. His now-rotund Brazilian
namesake, meanwhile, watched from the commentators’ box as his countrymen were
obliterated by a German team I barely recognised.
As for today, well, I’m two
weeks short of turning twenty six years old. It’s about time I stopped
wallowing about my years of self-perpetuating wilderness. Instead, each day is
to be taken as a gift, each breath a blessing, and a chance to do well.
