Guest Post alert! Enjoy, I know I did.
So, I’ve accidentally discovered that I am middle age. The other night, I was watching a comedian on Netflix, and she said that she had a simple equation — if you can take the age your are now, double it, die, and it’s not a tragedy—you’re middle age. I did the math, and <gasp>…. When and how did that happen? I just graduated from college a few years ago. I’m on Instagram! I drink beer right out of the bottle sometimes! I swear. I eat cheesecake for breakfast on occasion. I have tattoos! I wear Vans and sparkly eyeshadow. Those aren’t the traits of a middle-aged woman. Except when they are….
Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t have a problem with my age (44) and don’t consider myself a vain person at all (I would be much thinner and wear high heels if I was), but for years now, I have been under the delusion that I am “aging well.” Is it strong DNA? My youthful joie de vivre? My age-inappropriate attire? The exorbitant amount I spend on French and Japanese skin care? Who can say? But, I am often shocked when I find out a celebrity or someone I’ve recently met is in my age bracket — “He/she looks sooooo much older than me!”, I crow. Hubby thinks this is hilarious. Although, he knows better than to disagree with me.
When I was growing up, all the women “of a certain age” I knew looked pretty much the same. They had short hair, Gloria Vanderbilt glasses, wore sensible shoes, and often sported outfits that sort of looked like the adult version of Garanimals. To quote Arya on GOT, “That’s not me.”
Side note – If you don’t know what Garanimals are, you probably aren’t middle age.
Side note #2 – Yes, I refer to Game of Thrones as GOT. I’m cool like that.
The question is, now that I’ve discovered that I’m middle-age… Does that mean I need to start acting like it? Isn’t 50 the new 40 and 70 the new 60? Look at Jane Fonda! Robert Redford! Other people whose names I am forgetting, because I’m middle-age, and my memory isn’t what it used to be! Just kidding. But not really…
I’m no Jane Fonda…I haven’t exactly been vigilant in my upkeep. At some point in the near future, the jig will be up, and I’ll really start looking my age. Here’s the thing though…I have no intention of growing old the “old” way. I will not be cutting my hair short. I will not be wearing beige ortho tie shoes. I won’t be donning a Mrs. Roper mumu with coordinating plastic beads. Although, if you’re into that, that’s cool. You do you, as the kids say.
No, I think you’ll find me at the senior center (hopefully in the very distant future) in my holey jeans and Vans, hair down to my waist—even if it makes me look like I build gingerbread houses in the forest to trick children—most likely with a few more tattoos and sparklier eyeshadow, drinking beer right out of the bottle, and swapping war stories with the gals about the old days when women earned less than men.
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