I didn’t think I would look quite so . . . wizened. The wrinkles on my forehead, which I was already conscious of, have taken up permanent residence, engraved like a pair of train tracks.
My neck has a newly crepey quality and the crow’s feet around my eyes have become deeply etched.
Having apparently lost all sense of taste in old age, I am wearing a truly awful pair of glasses. Stranger still, I have gone blonde.
But the thing that strikes me most — and with not a little horror — about the picture Hal Hershfield has sent me of myself, digitally aged to make me look 20 years older, is how much like my grandmother I look.
Professor Hershfield, who has a PhD in psychology from Stanford University and is a professor of ‘behavioural decision-making and marketing’ at UCLA, recently published Your Future Self: How To Make Tomorrow Better Today, a book born of his research at the ‘intersection of psychology and economics’ examining why people have a hard time committing to their long-term goals.
Katie sent Prof Hershfield a picture of herself at her current age, 42, and he then sends it back to her aged so she looks 20 years older
He’s found people are constantly letting their future selves down.
We’re not good at planning ahead, doing things like ‘saving more, eating healthier, exercising more, going to sleep earlier’, explains Prof Hershfield, who’s talking to me from California and apparently very good at manifesting his future since he’s on a walk at 6.30am.
The reason we don’t save for a pension or get fit is because we have such a vague sense of ourselves being older, he continues. It’s so abstract in our 30s and 40s, we find it hard to invest in or care about.
What we need is something to kick-start our conscience — a visual focal point through which we can connect to our older selves. And by digitally ageing us, Prof Hershfield hopes to provide just that ‘imagination aid’.
There are various apps you can use to see an aged version of yourself, but he offers me a bespoke service. I send Prof Hershfield a picture of myself at my current age, 42, and he then sends it back to me, aged so I look 20 years older.
I pour a large glass of wine before I look at it.
I don’t think of myself as especially vain. I rarely wear make-up and most days I don’t even brush my hair. I am not supremely confident. Often, I hate how I look. But now in my 40s, I am at least reconciled to it, and not too bothered about what other people think.
One of the upsides of having been consistently unhappy with my weight is that I have a relatively young face. Although in the last couple of years I’ve been conscious of buying nicer face cream, I’m not in any hurry to have any tweakments (fillers, Botox, lifts).
Still, I am definitely worried about looking at the picture of me at 62, and when I finally open it, it is a horrible shock.
My first thought is that I look like another person altogether. The wrinkles are so prominent and the glasses so awful. Couldn’t Hal have given me some laser eye surgery and Botox? ‘This isn’t L.A.!’ he jokes.
He suggests that the closer the bond we can feel with our future selves, the better decisions we’re likely to make for them, but I’m not sure I do feel very close to this old lady me.
He asks me to conceive a fuller picture of future 62-year-old Katie. How does she spend her time? Who with?
Katie’s first thought when she sees the picture of her older self is that she looks like another person altogether
Where does she live? Does she work in the same job, or will she have scaled work back and retired? Will she have the same values I have now?
Sixty-something me looks pretty confident, at least. She strikes me as a perky, happy-looking professional. I imagine her — or me — with a busy, interesting life and that starts to help build a bond.
I look like I might be about to swan off for some lunch with friends, or give a lecture, or go to the theatre.
I’ve got a good tan, so presumably I do a bit of travelling, or perhaps I have bought that second-home in Greece that I dream of.
I look content, as if something fulfils me — perhaps a relationship? Or perhaps I’m a famous author by then.
Prof Hershfield is right, as I look at my older self I realise more fully all the ambitions I have for her.
It’s interesting that although future-me looks rather professional, she also appears entirely care-free, and it occurs to me that perhaps it’s because, instead of being exhausted by marriage, she has stayed happily single and taken the odd lover instead.
I surprise myself by realising that although I’d like my future self to be surrounded by love, I don’t mind the thought of that at all.
I’m at an age now when most of my friends are married with children, and sometimes I have a pang of wanting that for myself, but now it dawns on me how much of my thinking about having a traditional family comes down to expectations rather than what I actually want.
Seeing an older version of myself looking so content really underlines the different kind of life I could live and how fulfilling that could be. In a funny way, seeing my picture makes me feel far less anxious about not having children.
After all, this future me doesn’t look like she spends weekends looking after grandchildren. She looks smart, cultured, interesting — and like she has plenty of time (and sleep) to herself.
Once she’s thought about it, Katie likes her older self, believing that she’s finally shrugged off some of the insecurities that, today, she knows she’s held on to for too long
I presume I’ve gone blonde to cover the grey and am pleased about that. It’s a sign I haven’t given up. Maybe I’ve got a hot toyboy somewhere!
There are probably more serious questions I should be asking my older self, too. Do I have a pension or any cash? These are things that weigh on my mind occasionally in the present but — like everyone — I am too worried about money right now to think much about the future.
I keep putting off organising my pension (I know, I know . . .) because it’s something I associate with old people. But here I am old, and what exactly am I living on?
I feel guilty admitting the same is true of my health. I know I should lose the extra pounds I’ve managed to acquire, but although I make occasional enthusiastic attempts to go to the gym, it never lasts.
Yet I want future Katie to be able to go out and enjoy herself. Not just to look good but also to not be blighted by illness.
I take a look at the picture just after I come back from the Glastonbury festival — I’d like 62-year-old Katie to still be able to go to Glastonbury and dance all night.
Prof Hershfield encourages people to use the feelings they have about their future selves to prompt changes now on a practical level, no matter how small: meeting a pension adviser, not wasting money, finally getting to the gym.
He encourages us to put in place ‘commitment devices’ — things that reward or punish us when we go off the rails — like an accountability partner (someone we talk about good new habits with, to stop us flaking) or apps like stickK (stickk.com), which use ‘contracts’ to help people fulfil their personal goals.
One of Prof Hershfield’s techniques is to ‘make the big small’, which means breaking challenges down into smaller tasks and infusing things we’re reluctant to do with positive emotions.
Don’t think about marathons yet, just run round the block while listening to your favourite podcast.
Still, he warns against being obsessed with the future. There’s a place for a bit of YOLO (you only live once) even while planning ahead.
Use Prof Hershfield’s techniques at home . . .
Seeing an older version of yourself is easier than ever, as the popularity of TikTok’s Old Age Filter, which has had over 10 billion views, shows.
FaceApp, AgingBooth and Snapchat also have good ageing filters.
Hershfield’s approach isn’t just about seeing an older version of yourself, but deeply imagining and investing in her.
This requires you to do the work of really fleshing her out.
Some questions Hershfield suggests you might ask of your older self are:
How will I spend my time when I am this age?Who will I spend it with? How will I look back on this (current) period of time in my life when I am the age represented in the photo?
Finally, write a letter to the older version of yourself, and then write one back to yourself now from you then.
‘We do need to celebrate the present,’ he says. ‘So much of my research has been about myopia — focusing so much on the present, we miss the future. But there is a thing called hyperopia, where we focus so much on the future that we miss the present
‘There are times we need to live in the present and celebrate it, and realise we may actually be benefiting our future selves, because they’re going to have the memories to look back on.
‘There’s essentially the need for harmony — if we’re thinking of this as a negotiation across time, then both our future and present selves should have a voice.’
There are a lot of things I like when I look at my future self. I look bright-eyed, optimistic, playful.
I remind myself of those older people I love and admire the most now, like the friend who celebrated her 64th birthday on a seaside bar crawl with her husband.
My father, who was 90 when he died, stayed playful, curious and fun his whole life.
So, yes, once I’ve thought about it, I like older Katie. I think she’s finally shrugged off some of the insecurities that, today, I know I’ve held on to for too long.
What would older me say to me now? I think I’d tell myself to be happy, to regret nothing — but to start a bloody pension.
Mostly though, I’m just glad I’m not a grey old granny making sandwiches for her husband.
I hope I can be that woman in two decades, enjoying work and lovers between trips to the hairdressers to touch up her roots.
