Victoria Beckham has turned 50 – and, believe me, her life is about to get complicated

Happy 50th birthday, Victoria Beckham! I’d like to be among the first to welcome the pop star turned fashion and beauty mogul to my decade. She is said to have had the biggest of bashes and will, no doubt, love her new era.

I’m 54, and while I am nowhere near as successful, rich or as hot as she is, it’s an interesting time to be a woman of a certain age.

Arguably, it’s probably the greatest time in history to be a woman 50 and over. With so many icons of our Nineties youth now reaching this landmark, ageing is undergoing the mother of all rebrands.

Slowly, but surely, there’s more respect. Midlife poster women like Davina McCall, Lisa Snowdon and Mariella Frostrup, loudly encourage us all to celebrate our “second act”.

And we have more freedom than ever to do just that. Our children are no longer glued to our ankles. The mortgage noose has slackened.

We agree with Olivia Colman, who turned 50 in January, that the “c-word” has its delightfully useful moments because we have reached an age where we really don’t much mind what you think of what we say or what we do. It’s a liberation that would blow the minds of our people-pleasing 20- and 30-year-old selves.

Time was, if you did see a woman over 40 on film or TV, she was probably one of the silver-haired Golden Girls, banging out dark one-liners about being close to death. At age 55.

Cut to today, when the 50-plus women on screen are Sarah Jessica Parker and co, sexing it up all over the city. My own grandmother was in Hush Puppies, frumpy slacks and rollers at 50, while my mate Sarah and I rub shoulders with teenagers in Zara buying all the same sequined shirts and culottes.

Kate Moss and her daughter Lila look more like sisters in their new ad campaign for Calvin Klein. Ditto Naomi Watts, 55, and her 15-year-old daughter Kai, sitting front row at Dior earlier this week.

But the truth is it can be a bit more complicated than the “aspirational ageing” messaging we are being bombarded with. To me, seeing Beckham hobbling around in that ginormous medical boot was as apt a metaphor as I can think of for this life stage: sexy stiletto on one foot, the other one broken because she fell over. The yin and yang of middle age right there on one human being.

No matter how much we plaster on a rictus grin and “embrace” our fifties, scratch the surface and you’ll find some difficult feelings. I can't imagine that Moss, once the face of Generation X, never has a wistful moment when looking at Lila's taut skin.

If we were all wholeheartedly, sincerely happy about being of a certain age, a friend of mine, 51 this year, would not be going under the knife today to have her boobs “cheered up a bit” (her words).

Another friend, 54, would not be obsessing over the fact that a Costa Coffee barista mistook her for her children’s grandmother last week. And I probably wouldn't be feeling as jolted by the spectre of my own mortality as I was when my NHS bowel cancer screening kit arrived last Saturday.

But in this new era of celebratory narrative, are we even allowed to admit that we’re feeling a bit anxious, actually, about getting older? With all the drum-banging about how fantastically empowered we’re all supposed to be feeling in our fifties and beyond, what happens if you just don’t feel great?

Can there still be room for some proper honesty about all the wobbles that naturally come when you enter your half-a-life decade? The idea that you might not have it all figured out. If not, are we simply swapping negative ageism, for another scary kind of “toxic positivity” that silences anyone who might need a moment to say they hate the new jowls staring back at them from the mirror?

Or simply feel a bit lost: as my daughter told me, honestly – “No, you don’t look old, but you’re not young either.” And it's this era, the gateway between young and old, that can leave many feeling slightly directionless. What should we do with ourselves before we actually get old?

When I interviewed Davina McCall late last year, there was a moment that stayed with me. We were there to discuss her new lingerie range, Sessi, which is aimed at regifting middle-aged women with a sense of confidence and sexiness when they pull on their bra and pants.

I love Davina’s infectious energy and it was there as she explained how there were underwear sets designed for anything you might need – the set best to exercise in, the ones for when you want to really feel put together and strong for work, others for date nights.

When I jokingly asked, “Do you do any for when you just want to sit on the couch and eat biscuits and watch Netflix?” she stared directly into my eyes and said, “Never want to just do that. Ever.” That was me told.

But I’m 54. Sometimes I just want to sit on the couch, you know? And probably in my worst, grey pants. Because, as dynamic and energetic and fashionable as I like to think I am – and present myself as such to the world – sometimes my arthritic knees really hurt and won’t work. BECAUSE I AM 54.

And, like the good, grouchy, middle-aged woman I have become, I want the best of both of those worlds: all the positives of aspirational ageing, yes.

But with enough healthy honesty about its less sexy realities too. So Victoria, I know you will want to tell the world about how fabulous you feel about hitting your fifties - your “no f***s given age” – please know that it’s not betraying the age-positive movement to prop your big, booted foot up on the sofa and admit it hurts a bit too.