Half a Century

Well there we go. According to the calendar, I’m fifty year old, as of this morning and there’s no getting round it.

Fifty years. Whoever would have thought I’d make it, eh? What’s the old line? If I’d known I was going to live this long I would have taken better care of myself? 

Well, I’m not sure about that. Looking back, I probably wouldn’t have. Most of the fun memories have been when I’ve been doing things that on hindsight; probably weren’t all that smart in terms of long-term health. Those of you who were there know the things I’m talking about.

It could be that this is why it takes me a couple of minutes to get fully upright after crawling out of bed in the morning, and why my knees hurt so much of the time. And why people feel the need to point out my grey hair as if they think I’m unaware of it but never tell me I look young for my age any more.

For the most part, it’s been a good fifty years, but there are certainly reasons I look the way I do.

Here’s how it all began, back in Stirlingshire, Scotland in 1962. Just down the road from where Mel Gibson ran around with his face painted blue.

Being the third child, the novelty had worn off somewhat for my parents and as far as I know, this is the only picture of me as a wean.

Obviously, there were more as I got older. Usually dressed in my Sunday best and standing to attention which was how my old Ma believed children should be photographed.

As you can see, I had remarkably poor taste when it came to colour coordination and dress sense back then. Hard to believe as I sit here today in frayed shorts and food splattered t-shirt, like I’ve just fallen off the page of GQ Magazine.

In my opinion, things got a lot better once I hit my late teens. Here’s me at 16

And then 17

Looking quite stud-muffinesque as I’m sure you’ll agree. Or not. Dear Wife breaks out into fits of laughter when she sees these pictures but then, what does she know? She’s always had terrible taste when it comes to me. At least since I’ve known her.

The eighties passed, as decades do and…well let’s just say that I believe all photographs of me during that era have been hunted down and wiped from the face of the earth. Which is what will happen to the smarty-pants who thinks it would be funny to produce any at this stage. Clear?

Then in 1991, I packed it all in and set off to travel around the world and see where life took me. After years of working in the public sector, wearing a suit and tie every day, I embraced the opportunity to become a smelly backpacker. 

Although sometimes I cleaned up, for special occasions such as when my Australian friend Matt and I took Malaysia by storm as the singing duo, The Batik Brothers.

So idyllic was beach bum life I was living back then, I made a vow that wherever I ended up living, it needed to have palm trees. Of course, I didn’t expect to wind up in the concrete wasteland that is Phoenix, Arizona.

But that was where I met a gurl, and within a few months I'd conned her into marrying me.

Yes, that is a dog in the bottom right hand corner and yes, I have mullet. And of course, you noticed the mullet before you noticed the dog, right? Don’t worry, it gets worse.

Most people upon seeing that photo make some reference to A Flock of Seagulls. If you aren’t as old as me, you won’t get that but then to be fair, they were fairly obscure even by the time that was taken.

Into my forties then. Not happy about it but what are ya gonna do, eh? On the plus side, we finally escaped Phoenix in 2002 and moved to Colorado. What took us so long, I can’t explain.

Sadly, this was around the onset of digital cameras, which meant that everyone was paparazzi, snapping dozens of photos at every gathering and usually, posting them online.

For reasons unclear, it became a running joke to try and get photos of me with food in my mouth. It got so I could barely eat at a party without some unflattering picture appearing on the web within minutes. I tired of the game long before everyone else did.

So, I got into the habit of either pulling a face or putting a finger up my nose whenever I sensed a camera pointing in my direction. Hey, I said I was in my forties; I never said anything about being mature.

Digital cameras I note, also have the unfortunate tendency to make me look like I have a double chin. And a big stomach. Neither of which are true, obviously.

The upshot? Not too many photos of me during this period of my life. Or at least, none that I wanted to keep on file.

This one though, was taken when I was about 46.

Another at 48

This one starts to give you an idea of where the mystery stomach came from.

At least I remembered to suck it in for this photo, taken just after I’d come off my bike. Again. My ability to stay upright on a bicycle hasn’t improved with age.

Earlier this year at 49, I shaved my head for charity, which instantly transformed me into a badass. Oh yes it did! Here, I survey my empire.

 

Really though, I wasn’t a fan of the full-on bald look, but once things started to grow in a bit, I got used to it. So my hair has stayed short.

Which brings us to 50. Still forgetting to suck my stomach in for photos, but otherwise, contented enough with life.

Regrets? I’ve had a few. But then again, ah well, I’m out of space.