Back to front
Middle-aged . . . me ?!
Less than a year ago, I turned f-f-fifty-f-four. Damn, I can't even write it without cringing.
My plan was to write about how fine it feels to be middle-aged, like that prominent MacArthur study reported a few months ago . . . that we're supposed to be thrilled to be this old. The study said that most midlifers are content with their marriages, children, and jobs. Well, that may be true, and so is the part about us (40-60 year-olds) being satisfied, even if we haven't accomplished everything we intended to.
It's the part that says we feel many years younger than we look that gets me, as if how we look doesn't matter anymore. It's supposed to be okay to add wrinkles, pounds, and aches at our age. Well, I hate it. The saggy skin and stiff necks. Noticing that I'm casually overlooked in a crowd of younger men and women. Knowing my professional options are diminished. Awkkkkk!
Still, there's no wish to be twenty, or even thirty-something again. Back when it was so critical to push ahead -- get the right job, equal pay, promotions, a bigger office. Even at home, judging myself by how well my kids managed at school and on the soccer field.
According to Gail Sheehy in New Passages, it's pretty common for 20&endash;30 year olds to be anxious and ambitious, while competing for external approval and success.
Sheehy says when we reach our late 40s or early 50s, we take a horrified look at our aging bodies, professional ceilings, fleeing children, and realize that things are different. (She obviously hadn't read the MacArthur study.) It's identity crisis time, just like when we were teenagers, only now the game's half played, and so is our future.
This transition is all about finding a new version of attractiveness as well as new personal and professional goals. When we can accept and enjoy our rounder, more mellow selves, we can build on our unique qualities and complexities.
Well, I'm almost there, sort of. I don't care about the big office or the promotions anymore. My ideal work day occurs when I can dress up in bluejeans and meet my keyboard for eight uninterrupted hours. And now, when my kids come home with low grades, it's their problem we address, not mine. Yes, I definitely feel more relaxed. Plus, I know more, and have more worldly experience than ever before, at fif&endash;f&endash;f . . . .
It's the deteriorating body parts that's so hard for me. I want to restore my chassis, like my car -- a new engine and a paint job, please. I want to like what I see in the mirror. I want to be noticed at a party. And I want my kids to quit making comments like, "Could surf on those wrinkles, Mom," or "Can't you even touch your toes?" Worse is the innocent, "Why can't you look like Lisa?" The neighbor nearly my age who could be a cover girl for Fitness magazine.
Sheehy says some people deal with middle age by giving up. Abandoning earlier controls on eating and drinking, quitting exercise, and ultimately adopting an I-don't-care approach to how they look. Some become chronically depressed.
Forget that. Heck, there's half a life left to go. My body may be heading downhill, but my mind isn't. I've never felt more creative, productive, even wise. According to Sheehy, at our age, we're also more accepting, confident, and outspoken. Yes, Ma'am, loud and clear.
It must be time to laugh at ourselves. Enjoy family, friends, and work. Maybe it's finally time to grow up and get beyond looks . . . So folks (all of us beyond half time), let's age with attitude. All together now: gray is beautiful, a little flab is fine, wrinkles show wisdom. Then walk, not run, to the mirror. Take a long look, beyond that skin. Now sing out your age.
Okay . . . I'm Fif -- -- --.
Oh, dear.