When the world is not enough

The Fantasy

When you get to my age, you've stopped railing against the injustice of life. You've stopped banging your head against that brick wall. You've realised that it's not what you were meant to do with your life, and you have started feeling comfortable in your own skin. And BMW tourer.

Perhaps.

Or, having turned around to fondly bid farewell to your thirties, twenties and even teens, you realise that it was actually quite a comfortable place to be for a couple of decades.

You may start thinking you could have done more with yourself/partner/house/car/job/lawn etc.

You might even start believing that you can do something about it. And this is where the middle-age crisis begins.

The Fantasy

You start wearing tighter jeans. The smart loafers they all wear down the pub. The better styles of sunglasses/haircuts/phones that all the twenty-somethings are hanging out in.

Finally, you convince yourself that the barmaid has started eyeing you up in all this gear, and is chatting about the style you just know you are oozing, and is going to ask you out for a date.

The Reality

Your aftershave is attracting the flies away from their favourite horse's pile.

You are still wearing your sunglasses after 9pm.

Everyone else is wearing trainers tonight.

Your hairstyle is being copied by the two architects in the corner of the bar as the inspiration for the new Head Office for Barclays.

It's not the barmaid but the barman who has been asking about your waist size.

The Conclusion?

Give it up. You're not fooling anybody under the age of thirty. Get back into your faded chinos, scruffy trainers, Tesco-brand T-shirt, and old spice.

Because actually that's what everyone else is doing these days.

And that is actually cool right now...

So my £100/hour stylist said at the tanning salon last week.

Sergei.