On Middle-Aged Babedom

           Something happens in the psyche of a woman when she discovers that the hair color touted to magically

cover gray hair, doesn’t.  The first temptation is to blame the manufacturer or the timer.  But, for me, the truth is

evident, something I must face with unwavering courage:  I am no longer a babe.

            I can vaguely hear the cacophony of laughter from a boys’ locker room, distant in time and space and memory, asking the question, “When was she ever?”  Babedom, for me, actually lasted for five minutes in the late 1980s.  It was a Sunday morning, springtime.  I was in the grocery store.  Unfortunately, the only person who noticed was an acne-scarred sacker.

            But I digress.

            The truth is, I am now officially middle-aged.  Authors such as Christianne Northrup assure me this is a fabulous time of life, the beginning of my real power as a woman.  Now, if I could just explain this to the rest of our youth-oriented world, where I am regularly accosted by sales clerks showing me the latest wrinkle cream, and the media is celebrating the FDA’s decision to legalize Botox injections.  If only I could see women on the silver screen who look like they’re more than fifteen years old.  Instead, I watch as older actresses either disappear or are relegated to character roles, a la Shirley MacLaine. 

            I don’t feel any older.  In many ways I am healthier and stronger than when I was in my 20s or 30s, and I forget that the clock is ticking. Every now and then I pause,  look lovingly at my husband, and think to myself: “How did I end up married to such an old man?”  I mean, he must be old enough to be my father.  Unfortunately, he’s not.

            Others remind me frequently that I now look different from how I feel inside.  About four years ago, while doing research on a book I wrote for grandparents, I visited my local library.   The librarian looked at my selections, looked at me, and said, “Congratulations!  You must be a new grandmother.”

            I froze.  While I was already older than my mother had been when she became a grandmother, I wasn’t ready to be seen as “that old.”  I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I’m sure I slithered out the door, completely flattened by her remark.

            On my most recent birthday, when I moved beyond my early forties to fortysomething, I received the requisite card from my co-workers, who were eager for an excuse to stop working, take a break, and consume large amounts of chocolate.  In my sugar haze, I perused the affectionate messages.  I was, of course, expecting words like, “My God, you look so young!  You can’t possibly be over 40!”  Alas, instead I was jolted to brutal reality as I read, “39 again.  Ha!”

            At least I’m still in good shape. I can’t help but notice, though, that parts of me no longer defy gravity.  If there is an industrial-strength latex, I want to know about it.  And no matter what I do, I have a stubborn area around the tummy that behaves like a rebellious teenager, refusing to respond to coaxing, prodding, or even physical violence.  I’m told that in some cultures, a tummy like this is considered sensuous.  Just as in real estate, the important things to consider are location, location, location!  I’ll be moving soon.

            There are guides, I have learned, for maneuvering through this phase of life.  There is plenty of advice, for example, as to the pros and cons of plastic surgery.  I’ve never ruled it out, but I’ve never seen a face lift that looked natural.  Does Barbara Walters really think she’s fooling anybody?  Of course, then there’s the fool who decided to glop petroleum jelly on the camera lens so Ms. Walters, a dedicated and professional journalist, could look fuzzy instead of wrinkled.  Such an improvement, don’t you think?

I like my face as it is right now, though I’m not sure how I’ll feel in twenty years.  “I earned these lines,” my mother said, after which she scolded me for even entertaining the idea of giving Mother Nature a little boost.

Which leads me to my number one tip for feeling young: have a conversation with your mother.  Guaranteed, you’ll feel about ten by the time you’re done.

            Along with disconcerting physical changes are some internal ones that are, at times, downright scary.  Memory loss came early and suddenly.  After the initial shock, though, I learned to enjoy this particular change.  In my younger years, I had a nightmarish talent of remembering dialogue in conversations verbatim, much to the consternation of the men in my life.  I can no longer do this, and not only are friends and family off the hook, but so am I.  This ability was never fun for me, and it was a relief to let it go.

            However, recently while attending an Irish festival, and without having imbibed in, shall we say, the true spirit of the Irish, I ran into someone who works for the same company I do. Unfortunately, I didn’t know who he was.  That sent me running to the health food store for a giant economy sized bottle of Ginkgo Biloba.

            With loss of memory, though, movies, television shows, and other forms of entertainment are always fresh and new.  My husband and I can be halfway through a movie before we realize we’ve seen it before.

            In addition, my generation has spent plenty of money and time on therapists’ couches, sorting out our rotten childhoods.  Since I don’t remember mine much anymore, I feel freer to live in present time.  A few years ago, at a class reunion, my former driver’s ed partner approached me and asked me if I remembered a certain incident during our driving adventures.  While I do remember that my skills as a driver were abysmal, I had no idea what she was talking about.  Moreover, I felt sad for her that she would remember something I consider trivial.  Perhaps she remembered because she had been in fear for her life that day, but for me?  Ancient history.   I don’t know that young girl anymore, and somewhere along the way I became a good driver (I think so, anyway).

            Aging is also helping me move beyond a decades-long pixie stage that I always found annoying.  With my petite frame, people seemed to believe it was totally acceptable to pat my head and pinch my cheeks well beyond my childhood.  Now they don’t try it anymore, because I’ve become less tolerant of stupid behavior.  I give them The Look, and they start backing up.  I enjoy that immensely.

Maybe it’s because I’m less patient – fewer hours left, you know, and no time to waste – but I find that I speak more authoritatively now when I want something.  Usually the people I’m speaking to are about half my age, so perhaps I’m just enjoying a new and sadistic power to intimidate.  I am not nearly so timid about my desires, goals, and dreams, nor am I as sensitive to criticism as I once was.  I am louder, bolder, and more assertive.  The Babe has become the Bitch, and she doesn’t care. 

            Many people, faced with the process of aging in all its glory, react in strange ways.  I’ve been no exception, though I hesitate to tell these tales.  My husband, upon reading an earlier draft of this essay, had one suggestion:  write under a pseudonym.

I can’t afford a Porsche, so I thought I would take to the bottle, even though I hadn’t had a drink in years.  For my special adventure, I drank a shot of tequila.  Weeks later, I was still recovering. 

My body is so unable to tolerate drugs, including caffeine and sugar, that my only remaining drug of choice is progesterone cream. Anything else just wreaks havoc with my body, so I have returned to a resigned temperance.

            With no Porsche and no drunken escapades to enjoy, I then contemplated having an affair.  I met a handsome man, and we exchanged knowing glances and the occasional shoulder squeeze.  My heart raced with anticipation, my nights were consumed with fantasy. 

            Ultimately, nothing happened.  Perhaps I didn’t want to expose my body without its industrial-strength latex, or maybe I was just too tired.  When you’re young, it’s full speed ahead!  When middle-aged, the logistical nightmare becomes more trouble than it’s worth, so I gave up. 

            I also suspect, however, that age had given us both the wisdom to walk away from something potentially devastating to a lot of people.  In my younger years, I might not have exercised such restraint – after all, I grew up at the height of the Sexual Revolution, where we tended not to think about consequences so much. 

            The boring end to this story is that our relationship changed.  We both maintained our integrity, and our relationship blossomed into one of mutual respect, caring, and admiration.  I believe our aging and corresponding wisdom gave us the gift of finding something better and more substantial.

            There is, of course, always the possibility that he was never really interested in me in that way, but I prefer not to consider that option.  I have learned to value fantasy and selected delusions in my new maturity.  An important part of becoming a wise elder, in my opinion, is accepting our privilege to revise history.

            I’ve made other observations about aging while working on a special project with a group of twentysomethings who ingest enough cookies, doughnuts, and candy to feed a small third world nation without gaining weight. They have their life plans laid out before them:  grad school, children once the career takes off, travel plans.  One day they were engaged in enthusiastic debate about the two months’ salary rule when buying diamonds.  Fascinating.

            What can I tell them about wrong turns, disappointments, miscues, and Plan B, or C, or D, or Z?  After all, maybe their plans will come to fruition.  Maybe they will never know regret or secret despair or challenges beyond anything they could believe was possible.  I suspect, however, that they will.  Who am I to tell them, and why would I?  Age has also given me the wisdom to know when to keep my mouth shut.  They wouldn’t believe me, anyway.  I wouldn’t have when I was their age.

            The hardest part of being this age is my concern about what the future will bring.  Quite frankly, I’m enjoying my 40s, even with these bouts of temporary insanity, because so much of my life and personality seem to be coming together.  Right now I fit better in my own skin than I ever did.

There is hope for me, too, in that my genetic makeup is pretty good.  One of my grandmothers is still actively traveling at 87.  Widowed more than 25 years ago, she never remarried, despite receiving proposals, because she decided she enjoyed living on her own schedule, eating popcorn and reading romance novels late into the night.  “Why would I want to change my schedule for someone who just wants to sleep?” she says.

However, if my memory is this bad now, what will it be like at 60?  70?  Workout injuries, which have increased in the past year for me, make me concerned about things like osteoporosis and arthritis, especially as I watch my older siblings experience the more painful effects of aging.  The death of George Harrison, my favorite Beatle, at a relatively young age (and getting younger all the time) also makes me wonder, how much time truly remains? 

My other grandmother, once a seamstress of great artistry, is now in a nursing home, drifting away from us through the ravages of Alzheimer’s Disease. My mother-in-law, once an avid golfer, recently died at 87 after years of chronic pain and suffering. “I’ve been here long enough,” she used to say.  “Enough, already!” 

And here lies the true concern.  Not that we age, but how long do we have, and how will we die?  That may seem morbid to think about when I may have 40, 50, or more years left, but the first 40 went so fast, I can’t help myself.

When I made my first failed attempt at a college career, I worked part-time in the nursing home where my grandmother now lives. Our ward was reserved for those who could no longer care for themselves, and many were senile.  Some were catatonic.  I spent many evenings in the shower with old women, bathing feces from all over their bodies.  As I watch my grandmother and mother-in-law reaching that stage of their lives, I feel a twinge of fear for myself.  How can we know our lot in life?  The older I become, the more aware I am of how little control we truly have in our world.

            Despite my concerns, I wouldn’t change anything that’s happening to me.  Becoming aware of my own mortality has given me pause to enjoy my life more deeply, to treasure all of it, even the parts that hurt.  I will pass on the Botox, thank you, because the lines on my face come from laughter, and I am proud of that. 

All we can do is to be as conscious and authentic in each moment as we can.  The good news is that aging does take time, and little by little we can experience each phase.  We can fight it or approach it with curiosity and wonder; I choose the latter.