Age Is Just a Number: A Life in the Whirlwind of Passion
Margaret was preparing for her sixtieth birthday. The number itself sounded like a sentence, something unbearable to voice aloud. Once, sixty was the threshold of old age, the beginning of declineeven by today’s gentler standards, it meant crossing into “senior” territory. The mere thought of it made her chest tighten.
The last time shed felt this acutely about her age was when she turned thirty. Back then, it seemed youth had vanished forever, leaving only the ghost of her carefree days. Now, looking at her grown children, Margaret could only chuckle bitterly at those memories.
She paused in front of the bedroom mirror, studying her reflection closely.
“Still not bad,” she murmured, turning this way and that. “Look forty, feel forty. Nothing aches, everything bendstouch wood.” She winked at her reflection, as if defying time itself, then set off to tackle her husbands request.
Theyd decided to celebrate in styleon the Cornish coast, surrounded by friends and family. Margaret had resisted at firstthis wasnt a milestone for revelry, she argued, but for reflection on lifes weightier matters. Plus, it was expensive, far away, and a hassle. But her protests drowned in the chorus of familial enthusiasm. Her husband, Nigel, whom everyone called Nige, vowed to handle everythingfrom flights to a slideshow set to Bowies greatest hits. Their youngest son was on editing duty, while the photos, naturally, fell to Margaret.
She settled onto the plush carpet in the living room, sighing as she opened an old oak chest. There werent many photostraces of two emigrations and endless moves. Childhood snapshots were scarce: when shed left her native Manchester in her early twenties, sentimentality had been a luxury. A few were salvaged from her parents, but even they hadnt kept much. Her first marriage, the divorceshed taken only a handful of pictures: her own, the childrens, friends. The rest stayed behind, in a past that never quite materialized.
Nigel, unlike her first husbandan amateur photographerrarely picked up a camera. Still, over the years, theyd accumulated plenty. Then life sped up: phones broke, hard drives failed, folders vanished under cryptic filenames. The albums she could once flip through, touch, reminisce overgone like smoke.
As she sifted through the images, Margaret stumbled upon her graduation photowearing the dress her grandparents from Brighton had gifted her. Another showed her during hospital placement after her third year. Then, her eldest sons bar mitzvah, his tense smile and her own pride. And suddenlya photo stuck to another. She carefully peeled them apart. Her heart stilled. **Lydia.** Next to her, Margaret in an emerald dress at Lydias daughters naming ceremony.
They hadnt seen each other in nearly thirty years.
Lydia had stormed into their intern group that autumn, transferring from cardiology to general medicine. Petite, with a pixie cut and enormous eyes, she seemed like a girl until she spoke. Then, everyone understood: this wasnt just brilliance, but genuine talent. An émigré from Edinburgh, shed arrived with her mother and husbandher Ph.D. supervisor, a decade older. She aced her exams on the first try, offered any specialization she wanted. She chose cardiologyprestigious, close to her husband. But after six months of night shifts, she cracked and switched to general medicine.
Margaret and Lydia became inseparable. And when Lydias mother started babysitting Margarets son, they grew as close as sisters. As their studies wound down, they talked endlessly about the future.
“Maybe endocrinology?” Margaret mused.
“Why?” Lydia scoffed. “Three more years of research, then waiting for patients? A GP gets straight into the thick of itevery path leads through you!”
In the end, Margaret stayed in general practice, while Lydia went into endocrinology. And moved to Dublin.
Lydia had the perfect family: her mother, husband, younger sisterall adored her. Only one thing eluded hera child. Years of trying, tears, clinics. Thena miracle. A daughter, born just before they graduated. Lydia decided to stay in Dublin, among the Scottish expat community.
The goodbye was heart-wrenching. They called often, Lydias mother snatching the phone to ask after “my wee lad”Margarets son. But time passed, calls grew sparse, life pulled them apart. Thenan invitation to the naming ceremony, a grand Scottish tradition.
Lydia gushed about the preparations: a £10,000 gown, a stylist flown in from London, £200 updosthis in the late nineties! Margaret panicked, but her hairdresser, Sarah, reassured her:
“Your hairs lush. A brush, some sprayyoull be a queen.”
At a sale, Margaret bought an emerald dress with an open back, a suit for Nigel, a massive suitcase, and self-tanner. No time for sunbathingher pale Mancunian skin wouldnt survive Irish weather.
They flew in Friday night. Saturdaya stroll through Dublin. Margaret wore trainers, Nigel a shirt reading “ManchesterNot Half Bad!”and off they went to conquer the city.
The plan was ambitious: River Liffey, Christ Church, Temple Bar, the quays. Reality: traffic, crowds, the market too noisy, the cathedral under scaffolding. They ate something trendy, pricey, and underwhelming. Nigel grumbled but filmed it all.
Then came the Liffey, seagulls, salt air, buskers, the scent of Irish coffee. A walk down Grafton Street, every shopfront like a film still.
“Pretty sure Colin Firth had a coffee here,” Margaret said.
“Or someone who wished they were him,” Nigel laughed.
At St. Stephens Green, she ducked into a boutique, tried on £300 sunglasses, spritzed £100 perfume, and left trailing luxury. A proper leading lady in a rom-com.
ThenSunday. Gulping down a breakfast that deserved more attention, Margaret rushed to get ready. The self-tanner, applied meticulously, dried in streaks. Result: an orange zebra.
She refused Nigels helphe was in holiday spirits, fueled by morning mimosas, and she feared the outcome. Salons were closed. The only one open was in the outskirts. The stylist, not a word of English, deftly coiled her hair into rollers and doused it in spray until it set like a helmet.
Margaret dared a glance in the mirror: orange face framed by an 80s hairdo. She looked away instantly, vowing never to look again.
Nigel volunteered for makeup:
“You always go too subtle. Think boldlike the silver screen!”
He worked like an artist: stepping back, squinting, returning. Final touches: cobalt eyelids, bronze cheeks, scarlet lips. Margaret was horrified. Nigel, delighted.
Outside, she tried hailing a cab. No luck.
“Think they reckon Im a working girl,” she muttered. “You try. You at least look like a producer.”
The party was at Lydias new place in Dún LaoghaireDublins Scottish enclave. Everything glittered: tables, music, children, waiters. And at the centerLydia, radiant as ever. With a cold sore.
“Stress,” she sighed, the future endocrinologist. “I tried so hard”
“Youre still the loveliest,” Margaret said, meaning it.
Now, she looks at that photo: emerald dress, orange streaks, absurd hair, Lydias cold soretheir beaming faces. Back then, it felt like disaster. Now? Shed give anything for those moments.
For that life, brimming with hope, for her friend beside her, for the feeling that everything still lay ahead. Because, truth be told, between thirty and sixtyit was a bloody good laugh.
And whats next? Wait and see. The hairbrush is ready, the tanner behaves these days. And life? Lifes still full of surprises.
