When I was 12, I looked at my Dad – who was then 35 – and thought…
“That’s the perfect age”
He seemed to have it all.
A job that meant he paid for everything with £50 notes. Drove a sports car AND a lorry. Could drink what he liked, when he liked. Owned a static caravan.
He also didn’t have to worry about children. As I went home on a Sunday night, and didn’t always come back on a Friday.
When I look back to that time, even to when I was 35 – I now realise that there is no such thing as a perfect age.
I lost a County Cricket Cup Final at 18. Lost a National Volleyball Title at 19. Had the same conversation with a random stranger in a nightclub toilet for the first, second and third time at 24. Wasn’t sure if I was having a heart attack or indigestion from my first stuffed crust pizza at 26. Golden ages, every one of them.
Or maybe other, better markers, were things like getting married at 31. Standing holding the gas and air tube as my wife gave birth to our daughter at 34. I was 34 – not my daughter. Or the boy, flying out in to my hands at 38. Perfect moments; varying ages.
The truth is, the right age is every age. Where something happens that makes you feel grateful for who you are, and what you have. Which might be hard for some of us. People who don’t always associate the passing of time in a positive way.
In my head I always thought 35 was the best age. Now, with 10 years more wisdom, I know that only wine has a perfect age.
Mine’s a 2016 Barolo. In another 10 years. When I am 55!