Deadlines have always been a great motivator, and now a major one is looming – death. This doesn’t feel tragic; a long deep sleep would be very nice. The question is, what do I have left to do while I am still here?
I can’t deny the obvious markers of time: my face is sagging, my added weight won’t budge, I am less flexible. The real problem with youth is that we take our lovely, supple physicality for granted. Menopause won’t let me; my body is relentlessly becoming something else. It’s a blessing, of course, not having to bleed every month, not having to worry about periods starting on a fun trip when I haven’t carried any pads.
What I miss, though, is premenstrual syndrome (PMS), which gave me a thrilling buzz: the urge to write a new story, to clean my house, the push towards adventure. By the time I was in my 30s, I could recognise it, and used those one or two days a month to do what I wouldn’t dare otherwise. It showed me to what extent personality is biological. Alas, those moods have gone, and I need to motivate myself in other ways.
I am getting old, but my mind, my very sense of self, won’t believe it. I see myself as I always have from the time I was a fully fledged adult, say 35. Yes, it took that long. I am still 35, but with more experiences, memories and perspective. Is this denial?
At this point in my life, at 58, I should be an elder; passing on the wisdom I have garnered to the next generation. When I was young, I imagined that at this age I would act like my parents or aunties: give lectures on life at every opportunity, ask young relatives if they know who I am. I would be looked up to. This hasn’t quite happened yet, except perhaps among young Ugandans who have caught the writing bug. I do enjoy sharing what I’ve learned along the way. There are generations between us, for sure, but I too still have more growing to do and more books to write.
Part of the reason I don’t feel old, I think, is because as the seventh of nine siblings, I have always seen myself as one of the younger ones. My older sisters did everything first: go to boarding school, start dating, learn to drive, start work. They always knew better. Or maybe it’s because of the career I have chosen. As a writer, I have rarely worked in a conventional office, kept office hours or worn business suits. My freelance lifestyle sniffs of the bohemian, of the refusal to grow.
To compound this, I missed a major cultural marker of maturity: marriage. I had no rite of passage from a girl into a woman, until I became a mother in my early 40s. My being responsible for another human being was a huge internal shift. Menopause may be another rite of passage, but it hasn’t slowed me down.
I moved to Australia last year to embark on a PhD. Of course, I thought about my age as I applied for it. I will finish after I’m 60. A part of my brain wondered if this was practical, another part urged me on: do what you want, for all sorts of good reasons.
After all, I have moved countries many times. Each time, I have had to start over, as though I was 20, adjusting to new physical locations and languages, new friends, new challenges, new ways of being. This doesn’t feel like ageing. When the world is new, I feel new.
Physically, I feel the strongest I have ever been. I have always exercised to stave off a tendency to depression. I must walk or do aerobics or swim to keep my head above water. Luckily, I enjoy it. And with a university gym to take advantage of, I try to keep up with the 19 and 20-year-olds in the group classes, laughing at myself for doing so. What I took for granted for years, I now sense with satisfaction: my strong legs as I walk up stairs and hills, my steady breath as I dance in Zumba. My body has been good to me, and I try to be good to it, too. And we still have many more adventures ahead.
