OUTRUNNING THE REAPER WITH A BAD HIP

Clearly Over 25

Reassessing my life choices now my best years are behind me

“Approval needed,” the self checkout machine said. “Someone is coming to help.”

In the UK, you can legally buy and drink alcohol from 18, but they have this “challenge 25” thing, just to let people hold on to their fading youth a little longer. Basically they’ll ask you for ID if they think you look under 25.

A young girl came over, probably around 19 years old, half chatting to her friend and not even acknowledging me.

She scanned her pass on the machine, turned to look me in the face. I reached for my driver’s licence in preparation, but it was not needed.

She didn’t hesitate. She clicked a button on the checkout machine:

Clearly over 25.

That’s what it said. Worded exactly like that. I’d never noticed it before.

Clearly.

“Wait,” I said to her, “why does it say clearly?”

The young girl turned again, double checked her work.

“It means I know you’re over 25 and don’t need to see your ID.”

“Yes, but clearly?” I said. “I wouldn’t say I’m clearly 25. Why is there no button saying probably over 25? I’d say I probably look 25 in this light, which is very unflattering by the way, plus I didn’t have much sleep last night and I’m a little dehydrated. Are you sure you don’t need to check my ID just to be sure?”

She glanced again in my basket. “I don’t think someone under 25 would be buying a bottle of port,” she said.

“What do you mean?” I said, but she was gone. Shuffled away back to her friend, probably to continue her conversation about Tik-Tok, whatever that was.

People in the store started to turn and look at me. Those who were young looked confused.

“Why is this guy causing a fuss?” they were thinking. “I wish I didn’t have to show my ID.”

Those who were older looked on and nodded, thinking back to the day when they themselves had lost their youth forever and realised the climb was over, and all that was left was the slow roll downhill to the grave.

“It’s okay,” their eyes told me. “We’ll enjoy the ride downhill together.”

I left the store in a panic. The world around me seemed fresh, new, modern, built for the next generation that I was seemingly no longer a part of. Was I now expected to step aside and let the next crop rise? How come I never had a chance to do that?

Suddenly I became aware of the overwhelming youth around me: a teenage boy blasting rap music rode a bicycle, a young couple still awkward in each other’s company walked by holding hands, a guy with a backwards cap did a sick kickflip on his skateboard.

Maybe that last one didn’t happen, I dunno, my memory isn’t what it once was.

And there was I, limping down the street. I was limping because my hip hurt and I had no idea why. It had been hurting since I woke up. This happens sometimes.

When did my body start to fall to pieces? When did the world decide I was old?

It’d probably been years since I last got asked for ID, but I just hadn’t noticed. What a thing, to not pay attention as the best years of your life whizzed by. My mind filled with my poor life choices, things put off for another day.

“Ah, there’s plenty of time for that. I’m still young.”

The words played in my head over and over and over.

Suddenly there was no time for anything. I was aware of the seconds ticking by and tried to run home, but my hip… it hurt real bad. I forgot to take my cod liver oil this morning.

When I got home I took my wife by the hands, looked in her eyes.

“When did I get old?” I asked.

She looked at me and sighed. “Not this again,” she said.

This wasn’t the first time we’d had this conversation. It happened once when a man at the bank called me “sir” for the first time, and again when some kid at work mentioned Tik-Tok and had to check if I knew what it was.

I mean, I didn’t and still don’t, but that’s beside the point.

“They say age is just a number,” I said. “They say life begins at 40, and that 60 is the new 50, and all these things. Endless peppy slogans to convince an aging population that they’re still young at heart, that their best years are still to come. But what if we really die at 25, only it takes another 50 or 60 years before we’ve decayed enough to be buried?”

“Why are you like this,” my wife said quietly. “I’m three years older than you. And why is getting older a bad thing? Do you want to have to show your ID every time you go to the shop?”

“Not really.”

“Do you want to be back partying until 4am on weekends drinking bottles of WKD?”

“No, they give me heartburn.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“So what you’re saying, is that these are the best years of my life?”

“Sure,” my wife said. “Why not.”

I took stock. Reassessed. Decided to embrace this new perspective.

My wife gave me a pat on the head and pulled out her phone. I glanced over her shoulder, noticed something I didn’t recognise. It looked different, new, scary.

“What’s that?” I said.

“Tik-Tok,” she said. “It’s great.”

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