My name is Kate and I’m middle-aged. At best. I’ve just turned 45. This feels much bigger (and by that I mean older) than the traditional landmark of 40. Then, I had a decade stretching out before me; a decade in which I would finally, I felt sure, come into my own. But at 45 I’m barrelling towards 50.
I usually don’t think age is important; it’s stage not age. Mostly, I’m optimistic and content, though God knows why, as I’ve neglected to get married, avoided procreating and failed to make any money.
Turning 45 has made me ask some questions. When did I last learn something new? Er, Su Doku. Am I doing enough? No. I’ve always admired celebrities trailed by cameras for reality shows because they’re so busy. Not for them slumping on the sofa, tweezing rogue hairs, compiling the definitive wish list at Net-a-Porter and leaving it too late (again) to go to the gym.
So I’ve set myself a challenge. I will accomplish 45 things while I’m 45. I won’t be “clearing out the clutter”; I was de-friending people way before Facebook suggested it and I like my set-up. And it’s not about “the journey”. I’m over the journey. Perhaps it’s too much X Factor, but when even Lloyds TSB is “for the journey” it’s time to consider the Larry David school of thought. David’s motto for the cult show Curb your Enthusiasm was “no hugging, no learning”.
Still, coming up with my year-long task marked my creative limit, so I’ve asked a random set of people to suggest something for me. I assumed most would say “emigrate”, but they’ve come up trumps. I’ve asked everyone from my cheeky 12-year-old nephew Milo, to Elizabeth, who is 85 and worked on cracking German codes at Bletchley Park. I’ve asked my only godson, Sonny. He’s 15 and already one of the most accomplished people I know. I’ve asked lifelong friends, first-name-only friends, bosses, colleagues, frenemies, secret crushes and more.
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It seems that I am not alone in my quest to mark a milestone birthday with the ultimate to-do list. Last week newspapers reported that Lesley Evans, a 60-year-old librarian from Kent, had embarked on a challenge to complete 60 challenges this year, from go-karting to boarding a submarine and entering a quiz show.
It’s quite an undertaking. Even with just 45 tasks to complete I fear I’m a quitter. I never finish (and barely start) anything. I’ve recently quit, among other things, an MSc in psychodynamic counselling, the gym, the Dukan diet and farther back, two fiancés.
My list isn’t finished and I’m open to suggestions. I’ll detail my attempts to complete my task every week on my blog (45at45.wordpress.com). Some of the suggestions are about as appealing as seeing how hamburgers are made: I’m going to be challenged on a mental and physical level.
Among other things, I’ll be wing-walking, acquiring a celebrity friend, asking for forgiveness (probably from the celebrity), having a Brazilian (wax not man), doing an anonymous good deed, cruising Paris in a convertible, paragliding over the Alps, fire-walking, going to a nudist camp and learning French. But my first task is to learn a circus skill.
Which is how I find myself standing on a platform, four or five metres above the ground, with my toes curled over the soft, gaffer-taped edge. Safety ropes are clipped to my harness. I’m placing one hand and then another on a narrow bar at eye level which is almost out of reach in front of me. “And ... go” says my trainer, Adam, and I’m stepping off the edge, as if dropping straight to the floor.
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I’m at the Circus Space, which provides a three-year degree in circus skills to its 60 students, as well as courses, workshops and experience days. But I’m “just” here to learn the flying trapeze. I’ve done nothing to prepare for it, a tactic that’s always served me very badly in the past. The last time I attempted something like this (a parachute jump), I nearly decapitated myself in the ropes.
Today, I don’t drop; I feel a rollercoaster-type whoosh! I upswing and whistle through the air, my legs in front, and then back again. It’s thrilling. I’m fizzing with fear, excitement, focus and physical strain. Adam counts to three and I let go, falling to the giant padded mattresses; breathless, shaking, beaming. Below, students are practising — so gymnastic and graceful they make yogis look like couch potatoes.
“Let’s try a trick,” says Adam. I trust him implicitly. Sure enough, one ungainly attempt later, my legs are hooked over the bar, my hands are hanging on. I’m sort of doing it! The lesson is only an hour long, but it’s enough. It’s a thrilling way to start my 45 tasks.
Next up: the tango. I attempted a lesson in Buenos Aires years ago. It didn’t go well, although I picked up two useful tips: don’t tango in flip-flops and don’t tango with an erstwhile boyfriend with whom you’ve just had a row, who leaves you in a restaurant that night after another argument, never returns to the hotel room and who you never see again.
So what I like about this private lesson is that I’ll be dancing with a professional dancer, Rafal. I’ve borrowed some tango shoes for the day from Jenni Kravitz, who fell in love with the tango and set up her company offering dance classes such as this after seeing Jill Halfpenny tangoing on Strictly.
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Rafal and I start by walking back and forth. But my elbows, stride and timing are wrong, and I’m finding it hard to balance — and I’m only walking. We try more steps. I put my hand primly on his shoulder, but he moves it to his back. He tells me frequently that the man leads, but I don’t wait for his lead and anticipate, wrongly. When I do let him lead, he gently steers me in the right direction and it works well. Hmmm, are we still talking about dancing?
We attempt to join a few moves together that sound simple: crossing one foot over the other, sweeping one foot in a figure of eight. But there’s a lot to remember: posture, pressure on his hand, being attentive to his lead. Rafal is precise, fluid and patient. Me, less so, but I’m keen and I think I’ll fare better at night, after a few drinks, with other beginners. That’s my excuse anyway.
Next, I’m joining the Serpentine Swimming Club in London’s Hyde Park. The water is a bracing 18C. Inexplicably, this doesn’t worry me; I feel emboldened. I’ve even added more thrill-seeking stunts to my list.
What has surprised me the most about my tasks so far is that I didn’t hesitate at all; I’ve always thought of my default position as one of caution, but perhaps that’s wrong. They have reminded me of what a tomboy I used to be: swinging on a rope over a river, climbing trees and tobogganing through fields at 25mph while roped to the back of my brother’s clapped-out green VW Beetle. I wonder when I let that side of life get sidelined, and why, when it makes me so happy. If being 45 re-lights that delight in exhilarating, enjoyable exercise and scary stunts, then it’s not so terrible after all.
circusspace.co.uk, simplydancingpartners.co.uk