Six things that surprised me about being in my sixties

Author Maria Hoyle once thought that by age 65 she'd be a married and retired home-owner quietly tending her roses, but the reality is much more wild.

If you'd asked 10-year-old Maria what she expected to be doing in her seventh decade, she might have looked at you startled and replied, “Erm, well if I’m still alive I’ll probably be growing roses, wearing a lot of crimplene and going for Sunday drives with my husband.”

Back in the 1960s, in the suburban middle-class(ish) Manchester context in which I was raised, this was how I witnessed my parents’ older friends living out their retirement. It looked cosy, if a tad repetitive. Had you asked a more mature Maria – say in her forties – the same question, there would have been similar themes: a certain amount of stability and security, for instance. I would have been iffy about the husband part, having already tried and failed at that. But I would not have foreseen how my sixties have actually turned out. So here are a few things have taken me by surprise.

Not so much surprised at this as gently disappointed. But I love my job as a copywriter, I really do. Plus having no time shields me from the stark reality of who I might actually turn out to be, as opposed to the person I tell everyone I’d be "if only I had more time" That person who would take up watercolour painting / volunteer with a refugee organisation / create a herb garden / make pasta from scratch / adopt five rescue dogs. I like this aspirational Maria very much, and for now she resides safely in the realm of "if only".

I didn’t expect that I would have so little, and so much. Materially speaking, I thought age conferred certain tangibles on you – like a house or a piece of family land. Or at the very least a set of Royal Albert dinnerware. But no. At the time of writing I don't own respectable dinnerware or a house. It’s OK, though, because what I do have is a set of cast-iron friends – in both hemispheres, no less – two precious daughters, and half a whippet (shared custody). Over the years, you discover that certain friends morph into family. I have one biological brother who I adore, but I have acquired along the way a whole posse of sisters. Together with my children, these people are my roof, my walls, my home.

I haven’t followed the supposedly inevitable trajectory where, as you age, your ideals start to noticeably sag. Where your worldview develops jowls. Where you get grumpier, gloomier, bemoan the younger generation, and just want to be left alone with your prejudices and a cup of tea. Not at all. My belief in people (especially young people) and the good in humanity is as perky as it’s ever been. Which is a huge relief.

I have a vivid memory of 22-year-old me standing on a street corner in Altrincham, Cheshire, gathering signatures and collecting for CND (the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament). Back in 1981, total annihilation of the species looked extremely likely. So there I was on a northern English footpath, with my platform sandals and barely disguised fury, urgently shaking my tin when a 60-something lady approached. She smiled sweetly, patted my arm and said “Oh my dear. I too had hope at your age. But I’m afraid I’ve become more realistic.” She looked at me sadly, as if I she could see my entire future and my slow descent into cynicism, and her sadness lingered like a trail of smoke.

That 30-second encounter has stayed with me my whole life – but she was wrong. Wrong to the point where my political outlook is so plump and peachy, people will start suspecting it of Botox. Of course, my optimism does develop frown lines from time to time. I’m only human. I get road rage. I read the Facebook threads. But it doesn’t take much to recover my sense that all will be okay. I’ll have a bad day and then the 92-year-old next door will bring in all the neighbours’ bins, or someone will smile kindly and wave me on when I’ve stupidly pulled out in front of them, or I’ll read how a busy working mum of toddlers is sponsoring five families in Gaza, or I’ll see a tradie in his ute waiting patiently to let ducklings cross the road… and I’m back. So yes, I still take up causes. I attend marches and wave placards, and far from pausing to inform young people that their activism is futile, I find that their hope and their rage make me feel 22 again.

Bear with me, this isn’t a not-so-subtle plug… it’s genuine astonishment. All my life I’ve wanted to write a book. When I got to my early 30s and there was still no sign, I read that Booker Prize winner Penelope Lively only started writing later in life, and I was placated. But ‘later in life’ came and went, and still I appeared not to be published. It took some time for me to realise that for this particular dream, I’d need to park my butt on a chair for a few hours a week, write some shitty first drafts, write some better second drafts, and actually put in the work. It really is never too late.

My taste in music has become decidedly more eclectic as I’ve aged. My latest infatuation is with Taylor Swift. That’s right, I decided to wait until I was 65 to truly embrace the phenomenon. Sadly, I missed out on the Eras Tour. (My favourite mantra, ‘Never too late’, is patently untrue when it comes to securing concert tickets). Why now? Who can say. All I know is that I was listening to The Tortured Poets Department in my car and found myself thinking ‘Well I’ll be damned. This woman is a tortured poet! She is amazing!’ I then started exploring her back catalogue, and repeating snatches of songs to my daughters, saying things like “’You kept me like a secret, I kept you like an oath’ – that is genius!”, to their deep amusement.

And it's not just a blip. For my 64th birthday I attended a Harry Styles concert, and it was a blast. I also love Stormzy, Spanish hip hop/flamenco star Rosalia, most opera, Leonard Cohen and Abba. I finally get the point of Van Morrison, and I no longer flinch at jazz. These are not in themselves shocking music choices. It’s just that I had imagined that, as you aged, you became either a Wagner pedant or a ‘Music Died with the Beatles’ bore. Turns out I’m quite the opposite – and not just with music. I have a growing zeal for new things and experiences – authors, cafes, fashion, words, unusual dog breeds, types of cheese, nail hues… Some days I’m positively exuding ‘puppy just arrived at the beach’ energy. I realise how annoying this sounds, and you may be thinking ‘Oh shut up with your joie de bloody vivre’. I can understand that. Especially with the world as it is. If it helps, I can no longer do ‘swan pose’ in yoga without wincing and I have a lot more wrinkles than I should. SPF, people!

Big disclaimer here: I am, for now, pretty healthy (she says, not just touching wood but practically molesting the pine table). Apart from needing some WD40 on my knees and having the perpetual squint of a woman too vain to wear her glasses all the time, I’m mostly okay. Not yet having grandkids, not owning my own home, and no longer having parents alive, I am unfettered. I think I’ve got the ‘skipping off to Europe with a man’ out of my system… but I have no end of dreams and plans. I never imagined being in your 60s would feel so much like being in your early 20s. In that this is a blessed window of time, an unticked box in the universe’s grand scheme, where it feels the whole world is waiting for you to decide who you want to be. In your 20s, you have all of your many lives ahead of you. And even though some of my child/young woman dreams and fears are now firmly ruled out – I won’t die tragically young, perform Coppelia at Covent Garden, become a war correspondent – I still breathe in that sweet, fresh air of possibility. Life is beautiful. And it’s not over till it’s over.

Maria Hoyle is a copywriter, journalist and author living in Auckland. Her first book, A Very French Affair (Allen & Unwin NZ) is out now. Read an extract here.