17 October 2023 , 19:03
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People never believe it, but I don’t know how old my mum is. Her age has always been an incredibly closely guarded secret from everyone, because she’s never wanted to be defined by it.
No amount of snooping and investigating can shed any light – and believe me, over the years, boy have I snooped and investigated. I’ve mostly found it annoying, to be honest.
Partly because of natural curiosity, but also most of my friends get to use their parents as a kind of genetic crystal ball – they’ll probably go through menopause at a similar time to their mum, might lose their hair when their dad did, look as good or otherwise for their age as they do now – and none of this is an option for me. Infuriating.
But then this week I started to wonder if – whisper it – mother does actually know best after all.
Madonna started her 45-city world tour, strutting round a stage performing energetic dance routines at 65, a mere four months after being in intensive care with a serious bacterial infection.
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Angela Rippon, famously Strictly’s oldest ever contestant, celebrated turning 79 by doing the splits twice in one rumba. And recently Dorothy Hoffner, a woman from Chicago, broke a world record by sky diving at 104 (and died a week later, but let’s not get too hung up on that.)
“She was indefatigable. She just kept going,” said a nurse at Dorothy’s retirement home, “She was not someone who would take naps in the afternoon, or not show up for any function, dinner or anything else.
“She was always there, fully present. She kept going, always.”
All these women, like my mum, refuse to be defined by their age, or to behave in the way that someone with their number of miles on the clock is apparently supposed to. My mum is still working, hard, and has a schedule that would exhaust someone half her age (presumably?) – I need a lie down just hearing about it – but seems incapable of functioning at anything less than full throttle.
As Madonna announced on the opening night of her tour, “I think the most controversial thing I’ve done is stick around.”
Peter Pan Syndrome is a term that’s mainly used disparagingly, and conjures up images of Peter Stringfellow types hanging around in overly tight trousers. But maybe this is the one thing in the universe that serves women better than it serves men.
For blokes, Peter Pan Syndrome is sad, sleazy and desperate. For us, maybe it’s the secret of true happiness. If you defiantly reject the concept of acting your age, and don’t give a damn what others think about that, it seems like the sky’s the limit.
Don’t worry though, flinging yourself out of a plane once you get there remains optional.