middle age
Does 50 Ever Become Nifty?
About a month ago, I reached a new milestone – I turned 50. I fully embraced my inner Sally O’Malley and was ready to take on the second part of my century. Heck, after celebrating my 40th birthday, and the entire decade, I expected 50 to have a similar effect on me.
It did not.
It has, in fact, had the opposite effect. 50 has only served to highlight my lack of youth and inevitable aging. Updating my blog to reflect my new “status” made me reflect on where I am.
While I have continued to age disgracefully, there is a profound sense of loss. I just cannot pinpoint what I have lost.
I have not changed the world or even traveled as much as I had hoped. I have not made my mark in society, as I continue to be one of the millions of drones who go about their lives every day.
All I know is that I am scared.
Scared that I, like so many others before me, will simply disappear into the obscurity of the aging process. Scared that as an “older” woman, who is well into menopause, I have become obsolete. Scared that my days as a sensual, sexual being are numbered, and the clock is not on my side.
So 50, we have reached an impasse. Will you help me reframe my pessimistic view of my immediate future? Or will I continue to morph into one “those women,” the ones we see, but look right through?
Only time, as limited as it is, will tell. But, it is not on my side.
Another Year. Another Birthday. Hell, Yeah!
Ponder this thought for a moment: middle age rocks. I speak of this from experience, as a member of the last generation to have a truly “innocent” childhood and adolescence.
I grew up during the Cold War, learned what GRID/HIV/AIDS was and how it was really transmitted, in middle and high school. I watched the Challenger accident happen live. I remember the launch of MTV, and when the “M” was synonymous with music, like the “US Festival” and “Live Aid.” “Lollapalooza” was a little known festival advertised on college radio that took place in an empty field in Orlando, which now houses another shopping center. Trips to New York City included a stop on the observation deck of the World Trade Center, as well as, dodging drug dealers and prostitutes on Broadway and 42nd Streets.
Some days I feel every bit of my age, as I reach for my bifocals to read menus or an article online. Often, however, I do not. I have been told consistently that I look about ten years younger than I am. I have no desire to pretend to be anything but 46. I earned each grey hair, extra pound and stiff joint and muscle. I have also earned the right to look back upon my life fondly, but choose to look forward with a renewed sense of adventure. I have no desire to be in my twenties, or thirties, again. Did you hear that Madison Avenue?
The best part about being in my mid-forties is the ability to say, “fuck it,” and mean it. I am not going to be an attorney, police officer or super-heroine, as I dreamed about in my youth. I am happy to know it and move on. Age brings wisdom, but also self-reflection and self-care. It is liberating, sexy, peaceful and joyful.
My goal is to help contemporary fiction authors realize they are missing a rich demographic by not writing about middle-aged characters, who are sexy, intelligent, independent, quirky and fully developed. After all, we have more disposable income to purchase books, and will, if we see ourselves reflected back. The beauty of self-publishing is that consumers, not publishing companies, are driving demand. I will be demanding more experienced characters, loudly. I am 46 today, hear me roar!
Reading, Drinking and Dancing with a Chaser of Snark 