Don’t write a letter to your teenage self. Write one to your future self instead

ANGELA Mollard is sick of reading letters people have written to their teenage selves. What’s the point? So she has come up with a much better idea.

Calligraphy

IF I read another letter someone has written to their 16-year-old self, I swear I’m going to euthanise myself to an Air Supply song.

Yes, it’s sweet to urge the younger you to “dance more” and “smell the sunflowers” (except they’re unscented), and “look for happiness in unexpected places” (in the interests of time management, I’d try the obvious places first).

But isn’t this trend of writing to your teenage self a bit pointless, since you clearly can’t go back and change anything? Particularly irksome are celebrities: “Enjoy the journey more,” they pen to their spotty, bespectacled, unknown selves when they should be looking across their infinity pools from their sun loungers and saying: “Excellently played, wouldn’t change a thing.”

Indeed, had I forewarned myself about perms, parking tickets and boys called Paul I’d have put a whole generation of hairdressers out of business, seriously dented the coffers of the local city council and never appreciated the heart-repairing benefits of a revenge romance.

However, because I love an aphorism I’ve written a letter to my future self. Surely it’s more useful to have a blueprint for a life you still get to live than a regretagram for the one you stuffed up. So …

Pretend this letter has been handwritten in lovely cursive letters.

Dear 70-year-old self,

Get your glasses — they’re on your head — and sink into a comfy chair because hopefully you’ve learned by now that furniture should favour function over form. Remember those plastic dining chairs you had in your 40s? You wondered why dinner guests stayed so late? It was because they’d anaesthetised themselves against the discomfort with wine.

If the children are still at home, CHUCK THEM OUT. If you’ve bribed the kids with babysitting, you should have grandchildren by now. Boogie board with them and make rocky road with jelly snakes AND marshmallows because it won’t be you funding their dentistry. It’ll annoy the hell out of your daughters that you’ve gone from veggie Nazi to sugar pimp, but you’ve paid your dues in mashed pumpkin.

Think about your posture every hour of every day, because a curved back is the thief of youth. Keeping your shoulders back will also mask the damage lemon meringue pie has done to your waist, because goodness knows you didn’t abstain in your 30s to not indulge now. But don’t succumb to elasticated pants — they’re for your 90s.

Wear your life lightly. There have been challenges, but you’re still here and no one ever flourishes by dwelling on who they injured or who injured them. Mistakes are an essential chapter in the manual of humanity, without which it’d be a pretty boring book.

“What am I reading? Oh, it’s just the manual of humanity.”

You’ll have friendships lasting over half a century. Sarah’s red hair will be a grey curtain down her back, but you’ll still picture her, aged 28, dancing in a beaded minidress. Whenever you get together, drink the best champagne you can afford and if you haven’t been back to the south of France together, do it NOW.

If something hurts, take painkillers. If it still hurts, see a doctor. You didn’t pay taxes to fund medical research for all those years to now be a martyr. And ask for help, because people appreciate knowing what they can do.

Listen to all the songs you’ve ever loved, but also new ones, because learning new stuff is exciting. Ask your grandkids to play what they’re listening to. Ditto books. Read a couple of classics every year, because remember how you said you’d do it when you were older? You’re now older.

Ask them what they’re listening to ... if they’ll take the headphones off for long enough to talk to you.

Hold hands. And kiss. Youth don’t have a monopoly on affection.

Do not get a sensible haircut. No one ever said: “How lovely, what a sensible haircut.” Likewise, avoid beige anything.

Don’t say “back in my day”, because today is still your day. But by all means tell stories, because they’re all that will remain of you unless science finds a cure for mortality. Do something every year that surprises those you love.

Sing, even though you can’t. Presume people are good, because most are. Keep asking questions. Stay abreast of technology, because the fun you’ll get out of it will trump any fear.

Close your eyes, spin the globe on your desk and visit wherever your finger jabs. Promise me you’ve been to Newfoundland by now and eaten seal flipper pie. Take snapshots with your eyes because memories will always be more potent than photographs.

The Sydney Opera House seal doesn’t think much of that “seal flipper pie” idea.

It’s been so important to you to go out into the world and do well. I hope you’ve also taken the time to do good.

Your body is where and how you live. Walk everywhere and treat it like your frangipani tree, tending and adorning it with twinkly things.

If in doubt, ask “What would Mum do?” You’ll have been sublimely blessed if she’s still around to ask.

Even if you only live to 80, that’s another 87,360 hours. Make it to 90 and you’ve got 174,720.

Finally, have a good laugh at your younger self. She was a bit earnest, but she meant well.

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Twitter: @angelamollard