For our entire relationship I accused Norway of being in the midst of a mid-life-crisis. He’d just turned forty, quit his job, separated from his wife and gotten a girlfriend fifteen years younger than him. (Me. And yes, I know, I can really pick ‘em.) The man may as well have tattooed ‘stereotype’ to his forehead. Yet, still he denied it.
“Just because a man of a certain age decides to finally do something about the fact that he’s been miserable for years, does not make it a mid-life-crisis,” he would pout at me.
“Ah, yeah, it does, Old Man,” I would taunt the poor creature.
“I’m not old!”
“Ah, yeah, you are.”
His age obviously made no difference to me being his lover, but when you’re brushing your teeth together and the bathroom mirror reflects back his 8-pack abs and your Bridget Jones-esq “wobbly bits”, a girl needs to use something to level the playing field.

Now forty-two, Norway has finally admitted his life belongs in the self-help manuals of Nigel Marsh; author of Fat, Forty and Fired, and my personal, hilarious, favourite, Overworked and Underlaid. I tried to be supportive of my Once-upon-a-summer-lover and his much awaited epiphany, but instead found myself quip, “So you’ve finally admitted you’re middle-aged?”

Last month my biggest brother turned 31, which means that in a matter of mere weeks I will turn 27. The Little Carpenter Boy has been telling me I’m 27 since Christmas, so I’ve become somewhat accustomed to the idea of broaching ever closer to the big 3 0. My arse is still the same size it was when I was 22, the breastess are sitting only marginally lower than they used to, and these days I have a much more expensive hairdresser and the money to afford her. Generally, I’m feeling pretty good for someone about to give her mid-twenties a big sloppy wet one and a smack on the bum as they walk out the door. The question I find myself asking is ‘if 40 is the new 30, and 30 is the new 20, as psychologists and professional gender translators would have us believe; how old am I?’

“You’re only as old as you’re most recent girlfriend,” the Chocolate Lab once proclaimed, so proud of himself I could see his tail wagging. If that’s true then I’m in serious trouble. The older I get, the older the men in my life become. Unfortunately not in equal proportions, more a 1:3 ratio. In my teens my boy was +5 years. In my early twenties my guy was +12, and a year later my man was +15. (I’ve self imposed the current age gap as my limit, lest I be 30 and begin to cruise the local RSL on a Saturday night. I really can’t see myself utter the phrase, “That wheelchair makes your legs look great,” followed by a flirtatious smile.) When Morgan found out the difference in our ages he reportedly choked on his beer. Norway knocked his down and called for another. Their shock is understandable in some regards. Coming from generations with different letters is a lot for most people to comprehend. I tend to think of it as further evidence men rarely look at your face, when they can stare at your chest.
“You’re 24 next week, so you’re only 23?” Morgan stuttered at me.
“How old did you think I was?” … Crickets… “How old do you think I look?”
“I don’t know. (long pause as he tried to recall what I look like from the neck up) Mid-twenties I guess?”
“Well, Sherlock…”

“You’re and old soul,” Norway randomly proclaimed one rainy afternoon. Three months into our relationship, he was evidently still making his peace with the idea he had his first day at uni the same year I started kindergarten. “If I cut you open you’d have more rings than me.” I sat on the other side of the room until images of him covered in blood, counting markers on my intestines, while humming Macy Gray’s You Are Related To A Pyschopath, faded from my over-active imagination.

Just before my 25th birthday, right on cue, I crashed into a quarter-life-crisis. (Not that I’ll admit that to Norway) I didn’t know it at the time, but from the other side I can see it for what it was. SNAP. I sold everything I could, quit my job, re-homed my dog and moved to Asia. I was 24, but my soul was menopausal. They have a test now which tells you how old your body is. You may only be 19, but smoking like Thomas the Tank Engine and living on meat pies and café latte tends to age one’s body a few decades. So, I devised a test you can take to measure how old your soul is? It’s simple really. Take a look at your life, a good honest think, and ask yourself two questions;
‘Do I like my life?’ (Translated into XY: ‘Do I like my job and have time for beer?’), and ‘Do I like myself?’ (Translated into XY: ‘Am I getting laid enough?’).
If the answer to both those questions is ‘Yes’, then congratulations, your soul is old enough to not care how old it is (Translated into XY: ‘Well done, lad’). Me, I love my job, and I don’t care how old my lover is… he has a rockin’ bod and buys me shoes… I figure I’m half way. Not bad for nearly 27.