Do you know what’s top of my bucket list? Not to have one. When friends flaunt dazzling inventories of planned adventures before kicking the bucket, I feel a rising sense of panic. Bucket lists just put more pressure on women to lead big, exciting lives.
In such turbulent times, I’m actually hoping to lead a less exciting life.
I definitely have zero interest in yodelling in a muddy yurt at the Glastonbury festival while trying to summon up the courage to face the communal compost toilets. Nor do I want to have my aura feng shui-ed in a Himalayan ashram. Not only do I fear a third-eye infection but I’m pretty sure that by the time I ‘find myself’, there’ll be nobody home.
Even less tempting than mental challenges are pals’ physical goals. My best friend has taken up cold-water swimming and constantly nags me to don my goggles. ‘So, let me get this right. You want me to get out of my nice warm clothes and leap into the freezing ocean where there are things that can eat me?’ At least cold-swimming presents an opportunity to drown my sorrows – if I hold her head under long enough!
Despite the fact that most of my girlfriends get winded licking a stamp, they’re now planning to parachute, paraglide and bungee jump. The thought of me leaping out of an aircraft is about as plausible a proposition as Miley Cyrus in a nunnery or Donald Trump at a feminist festival.
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Ditto bungee jumping, which is clearly just asking for trouble. The same goes for hiking in Machu Picchu, white-water rafting down the croc-infested Zambezi or running a marathon. Couldn’t I attempt something less difficult, say… discovering a cure for Ebola or finding Cher’s birth certificate?
The trouble is, aged 66, I’m no longer what you’d call a natural athlete. I boast about my walk up the Tube escalator the way mountaineers talk about conquering K2. The most athletic thing I’ve done of late is to get the lid off a jam jar.
I’m more keen to take up a physical activity that doesn’t inflict bodily harm – say, hopscotch. Knitting, shopping and rock-paper-scissors are also not known for their fatalities.
Now that I’ve taken 'bucket lists' off my bucket list, a warm sense of calm has washed over me.
In later life, I don’t want to be empowered, improved or uplifted. Nope. I hope to embrace old age with wit, sarcasm and a healthy dose of scepticism, preferably from the prone position on my couch, where I’m reading all the novels I’ve missed and catching up on Archers episodes.
All accompanied with a lot of hearty quaffing, because my non-bucket list does actually involve a bucket – the one with the champagne in it. Cheers!
This article first appeared in the March 2025 issue of woman&home magazine. Subscribe to the magazine for £6 for 6 issues.
