Getting old isn’t the same as growing old

I was totally humiliated recently. Don’t get excited. It had nothing to do with leaked photos of me in bondage gear. No, it happened during a hot stone massage. As I was dressing, the masseur asked my age. When I replied 66, his considered advice was to always keep the lights low in the boudoir because “you feel much younger than you look”.

Of course, he felt a lot less well after I hit him over the head with his hot rock, but the comment did get me thinking about age. How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you are?

Like me, you probably maintain that old age starts about 10 years ahead of where you are right now. But of late, I’ve noticed that people are starting to treat me differently. When I ask for the seniors discount at the local pool, the attendants no longer look dubious and demand ID but nod in acceptance. On trains, passengers practically leap out of their seats to accommodate me.

Today I had to tick the 65-70 age box on an official form for the first time. What a shock to register the fact that I’m now closer to 70 than 60. How the hell did that happen?

I still have the energy, verve and curiosity of a 20-year-old, even though the mirror tells me otherwise. But some new research has put a bounce into this Boomer’s step. A recent academic study found that a 68-year-old born in 1950 had similar cognitive and physical capacity to that of a 62-year-old born in 1940. OK, so I can’t exactly claim that 70 is the new 60 – but 68 is the new 62, and that augers well, right?

Statistically, birthdays are good for you; those who have the most, live the longest. Unfortunately, ageing seems to be the only recognised way to live a long life. But getting older doesn’t have to mean getting old. In my experience, the best way to stay young is to keep trying new things, keep making new friends and never turning down an adventure … well, apart from hitchhiking in the psychopath-infested outback, Raygun-type breakdancing and threesomes. I mean, with fading memories, it’s hard enough to call out one correct name in bed, let alone two.

By your seventh decade, “adventure before dementia” should be your motto. Not to make light of that cruel disease, but the phrase emphasises the fact you never know what’s around the corner, so why not carpe the hell out of diem? Whatever your secret unfulfilled fantasy, now is the time to explore it.

A girlfriend in her 60s has taken up nude modelling for art students, and I’m tempted to follow. If the students are male and cute.

KATHY LETTE

As a city girl born and bred, there are some experiences I’ve always assumed would never require my ingenuity. Like white-water rafting in the crocodile-infested rivers of Far North Queensland, or floating over the Tasman Sea strapped into a deck chair propelled entirely by balloons. Which is why I won’t be joining my book-club friends on a hike up Mt Kilimanjaro. In truth, I’m not what you’d call a natural athlete; I speak about my walk to the shops the way mountaineers discuss K2.