“Oh, I would say about
52 or 53.”
“Yes, definitely early
fifties.”
My two work
colleagues, tucking into their sushi and beer seemed pretty confident with
their estimates.
“I’m still in my
forties. Is it the grey hair?” I grinned as I gave my response.
I was quite surprised.
This was, as far as I can recall, the first time in my life somebody had over-estimated
my age. Always baby-faced, when I was in my youth it was harder to get a drink
in a pub or restaurant, and I had gotten used to flattering under-estimates of
my age. Over the years, friends going grey and/or bald envied my thick head of
dark hair.
Later that evening I
found myself studying the robotic face starting back at me in the bathroom
mirror.
As well as sporting
thick streaks of silver, my features are more gaunt: sunken, bag-laden eyes, pale
skin that no longer sees much sunlight and a thinning visage. My body has
atrophied a little as well. Previously muscular legs have lost much of their
tone, arms are weak, hands and feet look more withered. A couple of people have
commented recently that I look thinner. In three or four years, the
Parkinson’s, and particularly the insufficient sleep, has probably aged me by a
decade.
I think the remedy is
simple: more sleep and more exercise. Sounds easy, but easier said than done
when you have young onset, expending all of your energy running on life’s treadmill rather than running in
the park….
Still, I can’t
complain. At least I don’t look 60. Yet. And whilst I’m no George Clooney, being
grey does have a certain cachet …
