Happy birthday,David Beckham. Earlier this year, Beckham, still impressively bronzed, toned and sculpted, was modelling his own line of underwear. Today, he turns 50. It would be fair to say he looks good for it.
But how does it feel to be 50? If memory serves – and it doesn’t, really; it was a while ago now – 50 is not so much a landmark age as a whistle stop between 40 and 60. At least, that’s how it seems with hindsight. At 40, there are still big questions to answer – “When do I actually become an adult?” being chief among them. By 50, you begin to understand that adulthood is no longer a desirable goal – you’ve already passed through the era when it would have counted for something.
Yes, 50 can be depressing, but it’s not as depressing as turning 60. Take my word for it. Sixty is when you realise that the only way forward is to develop an immunity to embarrassment, because shop workers have started smiling with pained forbearance when you can’t figure out which end of the reader to tap your card against (because they keep changing it, for no reason).
Fifty, on the other hand, comes at you like a blessed reprieve: you are just beginning your ascent on the far side of the so-called happiness curve, climbing up from the trough of discontent that typically ensnares people in their 40s. If you treated your 40th birthday as a wake-up call – a time to embark on the new career path, dietary regime or exercise plan, before it was too late – then by 50 you and your life should be in pretty good shape. If you didn’t, then 50 offers you one more chance to change course. It turns out it’s not too late.
Boomers, with their knack for making everything all about them, destigmatised ageing as they reached each new milestone (you’re welcome). Thus 60 became the new 40, and by default 50 became the new 30. Except: what 50-year-old would want to be 30 again? Who would want to return to that age of insecurity and ignorance? Not me. I remember that guy, and he was very difficult to work with.
It’s unclear how any of this might affect David Beckham – how wealth and fame and really good abs might distort the arc of the happiness curve. How does 50 feel for someone who was once best known for being young, who made his professional debut at 17, and got his first England cap at 21? Someone who raised questions about whether his maturity could ever keep pace with his talent?
One thing we know about David Beckham is that he plays a good long game. I’m not worried about him. But even Beckham might find the prospect of his 50th birthday party – however lavish – depressing. At the time, you think it might be the last fun party you’ll ever attend. Don’t panic – other people you know will have 50th birthdays, and some of them will spend more money than you did.
As I said, I don’t remember much about turning 50, or anything about the party my wife threw for me. I only really remember the next morning, when, badly hungover, I got up early and went down to the back garden to find every flat surface covered in cheap Ikea wine glasses, each of them exactly half full of rain. That was as good a metaphor for turning 50 as I was likely to come across, so I promised myself I would never elaborate on it.
Tim Dowling writes a regular column for the Guardian