WordSmith: On reflection, the cap stayed on

- Gerard Smith -

“Do you remember the age you were when you realised no one looks at you anymore?”

That question was asked of me by a male friend in the context of a conversation we were having about our respective hair-loss. It was refreshing to have an honest conversation about the passing of our youthful looks with a male peer; as I don’t believe it’s something us men talk about.

And yes, I hear Carly Simon singing, “You’re so vain,” in the background to this column; but his question really resonated with me. Because living and working in the creative industry in London, there was enormous emphasis placed on how you presented yourself to clients: sharp-dressing and youthful dynamism were premium attributes for a winning pitch. Thus, when my youth began to dwindle, I became aware of my wane in an industry and city that thrives on the vitality of youth.

And while my friend and I acknowledged how we covet the privilege of getting older, it was cathartic to reflect on our youth, while we remain relatively young.

I suppose we all notice the passing of time in other people’s faces, maybe more so than our own. I distinctly recall returning to Cavan for a wedding when I was the ripe-young-age of 43. Walking to the bar, I noticed a man nudge his wife and nod in my direction, “Didn’t he get fierce old looking?” he said. At the time it bothered me, as his judgement of my visual loss of youth made me feel I’d somehow failed. Now, I realise the man was seeing his own ageing reflected in my face. Perhaps he was in denial of what he saw in the mirror.

Someone once said, “When you reflect, don’t do it in the mirror.” I agree whole-heartedly with that.

Earlier this year I had cause to reflect to an audience. My first memoir was selected for ‘The Better Together, Cross Border Project.’ And as such, I was asked to give an author talk to a group of cross-border readers in Cavan Library.

When the day of my talk came I instinctively reached for my old corporate uniform, a suit; I even planned on taking my cap off for the event.

But, when the time came, I put the suit back in the wardrobe; and I heard the voice of many an Irish Mammy, “Sher who’s gonna be looking at ya!” I found reassurance in that, I was presenting myself and wanted to be free of sartorial pretence. I put my comfort-cap back on, and off I went.

An hour prior to the event I began to pace, a voice in my head said, “You should’ve worn your suit of armour.” I was nervous that no one would turn up, and equally nervous if people did. Fifteen minutes beforehand two people had arrived, and I told myself, “Two, that’ll do.” I took off for a five-minute walk to calm myself.

Turning the corner on my return, I saw people disembarking buses. And whereas in my youth I’d have trembled at talking to a room full, now I told myself to, “Cop on, and get on with it.” I took to the podium, nervous but ready to reflect. I felt liberation in my primary focus of what I had to say, rather than how I looked.

The facilitator, a young man from the north introduced me; and with his introduction over, I went for it.

Afterwards, I was happy with how it went. I left the podium brim-full of adrenaline. People were engaged and motivated by the notion of self-reflection and memoir writing; and as they told me so, I began to float on their positivity.

A lady approached me with an almost magnetic enthusiasm, “You were great, you could do the Late Late Show, I was all ears,” she said. Her words made me hover like a helium filled balloon. Then her tone lowered, and when she pulled me in, I suspected she was about to burst my balloon, “Although I have to say, I couldn’t keep me f***ing eyes off that young fella who introduced ya!”

I burst out laughing, releasing all the pent-up pre-talk adrenaline, and I soared.

Getting older gets a bad press, but you know something – there’s liberation and laughter in it, too.

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