James Griffin: The age of acceptance

James Griffin. Dean Purcell

These days, for some obscure reason, people keep telling me that 50 is the new 30.

Okay, the reason they're telling me this is that, as of next Tuesday, I will be 50.

But how will I know if what people are telling me is true? Because 30 will have been, for me, as of next Tuesday, exactly 20 years ago and I can't remember that far back.

I mean, honestly, who remembers 1991 unless they're a historian or something and it is their job to do so? We failed to defend the Rugby World Cup and maybe some other things happened, but apart from that, 1991 was notable to me only in that I turned 30 and started feeling old. So maybe 30 was the old 50, back in 1991.

It is possible I have become grumpier, on a day-to-day basis, over the years. But it is something I am working on. I hope to have it perfected in 2041, when I turn 80. I wonder if 80, by then, will be the new 50. I live in hope.

I vaguely recall there was a time, in my late teens, around 1981, when I knew absolutely everything about everything. Nowadays I realise I know considerably less than I thought I did back then. I love how learning that I, in fact, know two-fifths of nothing when it comes to the world we live in and that's as close as I will ever get to wisdom.

Once upon a time I used to browse in clothing stores. I had a weakness for shirts. I still have that weakness, but now clothing stores are the domain of a whole other group of people and they scare me - the people and the stores.

Nowadays I like browsing in stationery stores. And chemist shops. It is weird when you are in a chemist's shop and you are checking out the vitamin supplements and so forth, and the shop assistant asks if they can help you and you hear yourself saying, "no thanks, just browsing", and then you realise you're saying that in a chemist shop.

I have different aches these days. When I was 30 I mainly ached from playing football. At 50 I tend to ache for unspecified reasons, none of which have to do with football. Maybe if I start playing football again I will ache for all the right reasons.

I make a lot of lists these days, at 50. A good thing about these lists is that not all of them are aids to failing memory. Okay, yes, a lot of them are but there is still the odd one that slips through that is about goal-setting and things that are left to be achieved.

And if I can ever find the notebook I wrote those lists in, then damn, I am on my way.

When I turned 40 I had a great party where people told me 40 is the new 20.

I'm glad it wasn't because I liked being 40. In fact, if, on Tuesday, someone offered me 40 as the new 50, I would so take it - and not just because I could then shift the year of my birth to 1971 when Sticky Fingers, Who's Next and John Lennon's Imagine were all released (way better than anything released in 1961 - except maybe Ben E. King singing Stand By Me).

1961. Crikey. Lucky I'm too old to remember that far back. And also too young, when you think about it, because who remembers the year of their birth?

Despite being on the cusp of being an old fogey, I feel, on many levels, I actually stopped ageing a long time ago.

Emotionally, for example, I am a spring chicken, not much older than 18. Normally immaturity wouldn't be something to boast about but when you're as old as I am, then it is a thing to be embraced and nurtured - but not in the way a young person embraces their immaturity because when you're 50, acting like an 18-year-old is tragic on so many levels.

So, I guess, when all is done and said, the only thing to say about turning 30 for the second time - at 50 - is that the most important thing to keep in mind is that age is but a number.

Sure, some numbers are more important than others, but my name is James Griffin and I'm turning 50, not 30, on Tuesday.

Not that I'm making a big deal about it.