You’ve got to let your balloon fly

(A story I wrote when I was still in my thirties)

The plane is going down. The plane is going down! Oh my god we’re going to crash. We’re all going to die! Where the hell is my parachute? I can’t believe I’m not going to make it to my birthday. I’m not going to see what 40 looks like. More importantly, I’m going to miss the end of the One Direction documentary that I’m watching on in-flight entertainment. They’re singing “Best Song Ever”. Is this the last thing I’ll hear before I die? Brace! Brace!

Ok, so the plane isn’t crashing, but we are currently 36,053 feet in the air and these things tend to go through my mind at times like these. I can’t help but notice that we don’t actually get parachutes on the plane and how harsh that feels. Maybe they’re too complicated for everyday non-SAS people to use. Instead they should just give each of us a pack of balloons and some string so that we can launch ourselves, Up-style, into the sky. That would be a much better way to go. I might suggest it to Richard Branson.

I have also noticed a creeping preoccupation with untimely death recently. It’s that feeling of an impending milestone birthday and the fear of not actually passing it. I’m not sure why it’s so important to get there really. Turning 40 is no big deal. It’s not something we do, it’s just something that happens. There’s no effort involved whatsoever. If I had sat on my arse staring into space for 39 years and 364 days, I would still turn 40 tomorrow and wouldn’t even have to lift a finger. It’s no great or significant achievement by any means. But it’s one of those numbers that you can’t really ignore. It’s the second hand reaching twelve again, the calendar page being turned. It’s the fifth strike through another batch of four decade lines, and like it or not, 40 means something different to 30 or 20 or 70 or 100. It feels important.

But maybe that’s what everyone feels about their age all the time. At ten I was wearing Star Wars pyjamas and watching The Five Doctors — still, in my opinion, the best Doctor Who story ever. Not a bad life. At twenty I was approaching the end of my time at university courtesy of the government — no fees for me — and enjoying life in London. Pretty good. At thirty I had just started working in the NHS and passed my driving test. Thumbs up all round. So far so good. My thirties were pretty cool if I’m honest. Stunning highs and tremendous lows — generally weddings and funerals respectively — but on the whole I’d give this last decade a strong eight out of ten. I am, however, pleased to be turning forty. It feels right. I’m old enough to have seen Madonna’s Blond Ambition tour at Wembley and young enough to know the words to MDNA.

I’ve been noticing my age all over the place recently. Just last week, the Oxford English Dictionary named “selfie” as their word of the year. That made me feel quite old. There’s something utterly teenage about a selfie. It goes hand in glove with snapchatting and whatsapping, the domains of the young and light of mind. A selfie is “a photograph that one has taken of oneself” and yes, I confess, my name is Paul and I have been guilty of posting selfies but recently I’ve been trying to create more ‘age appropriate’ imagery. To me a selfie is more than a photo of yourself. A selfie is a deliberately posed portrait; a representation; a gesture. The camera never lies but the cameraphone definitely bends the truth. Angles are chosen carefully. Lighting is always from above. Lips are pursed to exaggerate those hidden cheekbones. You become the paparazzo of yourself, catching yourself unexpectedly asleep or in the shower.

Those pesky cameras get everywhere but thankfully they are ever so kind and flattering. I’m very photogenic in my selfies. When I look at those photos I take of myself my jaw is square and firm with a smattering of sexy stubble. My eyes are steel blue islands floating in a sea of bright white sky. My skin is smooth, with a healthy, warm glow. My shoulders are broad, my waist is narrow and my legs are powerful. I look tall and poised, intelligent or daft, depending on the mood. I look playful and serious, sometimes together. I’m a little tiger. Roar!

Compare this to when I look at myself in a brightly lit mirror, maybe one in a Top Man changing room. My face is more round and my jaw is slightly saggy, the stubble now approximately 80% grey. My eyes have a slight pink tinge to them and seem to be fighting to be seen behind dark circles and lines. My skin tone is “Scottish Grey” and at the tender age of 39 I seem to be enjoying something of a youthful resurgence of red acne all across my forehead and nose. My shoulders are covered in wiry hair that seems to have a life of its own. This also applies to ears and nose but sadly not on the back of my head which is now bereft of any follicular activity. Meanwhile my chest hair becomes fuller and longer by the day, and greyer. My waist is narrower than my shoulders, just, but there’s an ongoing war happening in between my ribs and hips known as The Battle for Middle Girth and the troops are exhausted. The saving grace to this omnishambles is that my legs are, indeed, amazing thanks to lots of running but my knees click when I walk and I’m still disappointed that I never quite made it past 5'6". Now don’t get me wrong this isn’t some kind of self flagellation about getting older and watching my body crumble into dust before my eyes. It’s just interesting to me that how I choose to identify myself in the images I present to the world has probably been quite different to how I actually am ‘in real life’.

Thankfully that’s changing. I’ve become so much less interested in what others think of me and more curious about what I think of myself. It’s much more invigorating to me these days to ponder how I might actually become better in real life than to present an inflated image of myself to an external audience who really neither care nor matter. I mean, some of them matter, friends and family absolutely, but all those faceless names on Facebook or Twitter or Instagram matter less to me now that they ever have. There has been a liberating shift in my psyche that has set me free from the opinions of others and turned some of that brain energy into a restless determination. It’s quite scary though. It’s definitely ‘no parachute’ territory. For my birthday Dan paid for me to have a “Mini-Me” made. It’s super cool. You stand in what looks like a tanning booth filled with cameras that take a 360 degree image of your body. This image is then 3D printed into a 6" statue of you. Your own little sculpture of yourself. In some ways it’s the terrifying antithesis of a selfie. It’s a physical manifestation of all your faults and all your beauty, presented in a little wooden box. You can literally look at the fear in your own eyes. It’s brilliant. I encourage everyone to give it a try and to spend time admiring yourself, flaws and all.

One of the most fantastic things about being on the brink of 40 is that the layers of barriers and defense seem to be falling away like decaying petals. The ready brek shield that used to be a mile thick is reducing in size with each day that passes. I remember feeling so self conscious over the years, of having such an intense sense of being watched and scrutinised that everything needed to be managed tightly so that no chinks in the armour were revealed. Maybe it was growing up gay or being an only child or having ten toes or being born under a waning moon, I guess it doesn’t really matter. But those feelings of being bothered about how people saw me were, in hindsight, a hindrance beyond measure. Potentially embarrassing situations were avoided. Risk was managed. Fear was contained. Life was limited. Now on the other hand, my attitude towards this has moved to a much more exciting place. I see embarrassment as something that should be run towards full force, again and again. Humiliating situations should be welcomed with open arms. Those moments where I just want the ground to open and swallow me are without doubt the most heart pumping, adrenaline releasing opportunities to learn about and more importantly laugh at myself. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not advocating stumbling through life like a roller skating Frank Spencer because, being Frank is frankly not helpful to anyone. But I do believe that the less conscious I am of myself, the more useful I am to others.

And within that statement is what I think I’m starting to realise, the beginnings of an understanding of what my life means, to me. Your mileage may vary, but for me it’s got to be about using myself as an instrument for change. Whether that is through work, friendships, writing, photography, family or any other means I’m not sure yet (it’s probably “all of the above”, it usually is) but there’s definitively something interesting to me about being the tool that affects change. Haha I said tool. It frightens me to think that I could get to the end of my life and not at least attempted to change the world even in a tiny way, but preferably in a cool and impactful one. The problem is how to go about it in practice. I’ve become obsessed with working things out and understanding now to do stuff well. I’ve been reading about quantum mechanics and art interpretation, standup comedy, storytelling and principles of design. I’ve started asking myself “is it good” instead of “do I like it”. I can’t get enough of trying to do things better. It’s really tough though. It would be great to be able to download a book of answers to my kindle but sadly that’s not yet available for pre-order. It would appear someone threw away the manual just as we needed it most. So here’s the first section of The Manual of Me. The book of Paul. A guide to the next chapter of self.

Rules for 40 year old me:

• When tempted to post a posed selfie, instead look yourself hard in the eyes in a mirror and ask “how can I be kinder to myself so that the opinions of others matter less” and don’t leave until there’s a good answer, unless you’re in a burning building in which case take the photo and run.
• Try to make yourself do something interesting every day even if it seems boring at first because something curious and unexpected might happen that could blow your mind.
• Practice being more comfortable in the space where things aren’t binary. Worship plurality of possibility and believe that there really is no right, wrong, black, white, yes or no. Work really hard to enjoy the spaces in between.
• Resist giving up the need to change the world despite what anyone might say. What do they know. And even if they do know what they’re talking about just point over their shoulder, say “look at that” and run away laughing.
• Keep asking questions of yourself so that you keep keep getting to know yourself better and don’t for a second think that you’ve worked it out. The only measure of self that’s worth anything is authenticity and that’s a means not an end.
• Avoid people who: are rude to shop assistants; don’t like animals or children; practise cynical apathy; get in the way of embetterment; become who they think you want them to be; point out spelling or grammar mistakes; mock your musical taste; don’t believe in magic; take the piss out of anyone who they see as worse off than they are.
• Love people relentlessly hard, especially that person who said “I do” because they’re the one that makes your heart strong and your pride swell and make you feel capable and safe and like you can achieve anything. They deserve to have their soul nurtured in every possible way even when that feels difficult and you’ve had a long day at work and they want to do some hoovering. They deserve generosity above all else.

Oh, hang on, the pilot has just switched on the fasten seatbelts sign. It’s getting pretty bumpy in here. I’m still unashamedly enjoying the One Direction documentary. They’re now singing “Live while we’re young”. The great thing about turning 40 is that you realise just how much living happens after you’re young and that it’s beautiful and inspiring and horrifying and thrilling and risky and fun and dangerous and joyous. It’s time to reach for the balloons and jump into the blue. The hour approaches and the future beckons. The sun is shining and there’s fire in the belly.

Let’s fly.