Older

I’m 21, but sometimes my body tells me I’m older. There are little signifiers to watch out for. Like the little groan that escapes the back of my throat when I get out of a chair, and the corresponding sigh of relief when I fall into one. Is this really necessary? Is my body that out of shape that it likes to remind me that the transition between sitting and standing is a stressful one to me?

I’m stuck with it now, it’s not going to get any better, but neither will it get worse. There never seems to be much range in this noise, depending on just how decrepit you are. I think it would be a good indication as to how old someone is. In your thirties it’s the sigh, barely noticeable above the sound of the TV. In your fifties it becomes an inappropriate bark, almost angry, as if lifting yourself out of a chair is a battle. By seventy, you’re screaming; afraid that every ascent may be the death of you.

I’ve tried to rectify this problem and eliminate it from my system. I refuse to have it until I’m a dad. So now, I hold my breath, and by the time I’m on my feet my face is purple. For whatever reason, the sighing eases the process, as if there was a major difference in air pressure between my height and the level of the couch. As if the sighing releases a valve that makes it safe to be upright. If I somehow fail to eject myself from my chair (one of the hazards of not breathing) I may have to wait a good quarter of an hour before I’m stable enough to try again, or I risk passing out.

I wonder if there is more to the ‘couch sigh’ than first meets the ear. Perhaps it is a modern rites of passage, that suggests a new phase in life that every man comes to at one point or another. A time when father and son both expel their breaths in agreement, as if so much were contained in their sighs. It suggests experience, a wistfulness and resignation, but an acceptance of life. At this point the father could turn to his son, his eyes shining with pride, whilst his shaking hand proffers an ancient technology. Passed from fathers to sons in livingrooms across the country. As if to say, you can’t control life, but you can control TV.

The sighing in unison is a rare and mystical phenomenon. At a family gathering I once stood up at the same time as my dad and one of my uncles. The resulting noise was a chorus of effort, as if we were an a cappella group demonstrating a synchronised cough. It was like four doors of a car being shut simultaneously, so that it didn’t sound like four doors, but instead one huge booming door. This occurs as seldom as the perfect alignment of the planets in our solar system, but with less catastrophic events. In this instance we accidentally blew out the candles on my cousin’s birthday cake.