The quiet tragedies of young old age

{"text":[[{"start":5.46,"text":"I was sitting in the Fendi front row at Milan Fashion Week on Wednesday, toggling between different messages: about what day the window cleaner could make it; about a deadline; about a potential story with a very exciting talent whose first film is about to debut; about the possibility of a surgical consultancy regarding a few small spider veins that I’ve decided are becoming very unbecoming; about which book my daughter fancied reading next, when I received an incoming call which appeared to be from an unknown number somewhere in Palermo but was in fact my husband. He was ringing to tell me that the dog, after 14 years at the very centre of our existence, had suddenly succumbed to a strange and disquieting listlessness that was currently being investigated in the emergency room at the local vet."}],[{"start":48.4,"text":"Apparently, Alvin (“like the chipmunk”, for that is what we called him) had long been masking the symptoms of a cancer that, without any warning, chose to make its last assault. We had to decide, within about 20 minutes, the course of action. The kindest and most humane procedure was to put him, almost immediately, to sleep."}],[{"start":67.34,"text":"I scurried out of the show just before the first Fendi look appeared on the catwalk, the kind of dramatic exit that draws attention because it appears as though one is making “a scene”, in order to FaceTime Alvin and say my last goodbyes. Outside, dozens of animal-rights protesters were staging an anti-fur demonstration — Fendi, a heritage furrier, is still a purveyor of mink, Arctic fox and sable fur — and so I said my farewell while trying to block a soundscape of moral outrage about animal cruelty, in Italian, reverberating down the street."}],[{"start":94.72,"text":"Crawling back through the one-way system to sit and sob in my hotel room, it occurred to me that this was the kind of plotline that would sit well in Sharon Horgan’s new show Youth. The HBO series, which debuted this week, explores the tragicomedy of negotiating life in one’s fifties, with all of its pathetic disappointments, vanities, sexual adventures and griefs. Youth is loosely based on Horgan’s own experiences, the third part of a trilogy that has offered a snapshot of modern adulthood across different decades. The first, Pulling, was about singletons contemplating their thirties, the next, Catastrophe, was a stunning series about the pandemonium of raising a young family and those years that feel like an eternity when you’re in the salt mines of bedtime stories and potty training, only to see them vanish overnight."}],[{"start":151.32,"text":"Youth finds Alex (Horgan) divorced, seeing her only child Ruarí (Aran Murphy) off to college, successful in her career and “last-chance” horny. The running theme is that she’s only “got 10 years left as a sexual person, tops”. I’m not divorced, nor remotely horny, but I appreciate the dexterity with which she balances the tiny sadnesses of ageing with humour. The darkest moments are underscored by brilliant bathos: life is pretty funny even when it’s bloody bleak."}],[{"start":null,"text":""}],[{"start":182,"text":"People like to rave on about how fabulous it is to be in one’s fifties — largely unencumbered, ripe with new curiosity and freedom, professionally experienced. This decade is often sold as being among the Best Years of One’s Life. But this somewhat deluded theory co-exists with a powerful and generally more insidious counter-narrative which talks of the inevitability of succumbing to a host of evils such as thinning hair, brain fog, a plummeting libido and “stubborn belly fat”. For women, it’s especially pernicious: I’m overwhelmed by social messaging decreeing that I will become an obese depressive unless I spend six hours a day doing Pilates and draining vats of HRT. The sandwich generation has been so named to describe the twin responsibilities of looking after children who still need — at least financial — support, and ageing parents. For every fabulous fiftysomething, there seems to be a mirror story. The decade of defiance can be desperate as well."}],[{"start":null,"text":""}],[{"start":240.56,"text":"I knew the dog was going to die long before I did. Or at least, I hoped he would. And I don’t need to draw on the countless other testaments to the devastation one feels at losing such a close and adoring friend. What does hit me now, with a velocity that feels quite brutal, is that with his death I am also closing a 14-year chapter that coincided with my middle age. We got the dog when my daughter was in the prime of infancy. He accompanied her through adolescence and saw her off to university: this summer she turned 21. Likewise, I have journeyed from being a zesty thirtysomething school-gate parent with snack bags (well, OK, good intentions) and a bouncy puppy, into a greyer version. I have nicer handbags and much stiffer knees. The dog let me grip on to the faith of continuity. His lead was a symbolic tether to my younger, less-formed self. With his death, that self is slowly disappearing. I have entered, as Horgan describes it, the next chapter: young old age."}],[{"start":298.22,"text":"I don’t love it. But Horgan makes me feel somewhat more reassured about the future — she looks at least as good as someone in their early forties, and doesn’t seem to have an issue with low libido or thinning hair. I like that she doesn’t try to sugarcoat the fact that one’s fifties can be emotionally challenging, nerve-fraying and disappointing, especially if, you know, you think your pets should live forever and you like a “snatched jawline”. But young old age is a privilege. So you’ve got to get on with living. Do the damn Pilates. Because you’re only young old once."}],[{"start":332.68,"text":""}]],"url":"https://audio.ftcn.net.cn/album/a_1790467665_8763.mp3"}