Madeline
Rookie
- Banned
- #1
According to the media, most folks panic about aging when they turn a "Big O" type birthday, but like the pain in the ass that I am, I have never had my panic attacks on schedule. In a few weeks, I will be 57. Probably due to my horrendous math skills, it has finally dawned on me that I might not be "middle aged" anymore. After all, I don't reasonably expect (nor wish) to live to be 114 years old.
So, okie dokie, I'm not young. I'm not middle aged. But I'm not old yet, I dun think. (I keep pushing back the definition of "old"; I used to be sure 70 year olds were "old" but these days, I'm not so sure.) I'm not a "senior" (somehow that just feels too academic), I'm not "mature" (never really held that as a goal, I admit), so just exactly WTF am I?
We need a new language for aging in this country, and new visions of what aging means. When I was young, women my age were almost interchangable. Same clothing, same hair styles, same everything. Men clung to viability a bit longer, but eventually fell into society's junk heap as well. I'm unsure what the hell to buy in clothing stores anymore. Am I still jeans-eligible? I want rebellious clothing, fun clothing, cool clothing -- but is that even possible now?
I finally let my hair color go natural. Lots of white, a little brown -- it ain't a bad color, actually. No one has seen my natural hair color in thirty years; even I didn't know what to expect. And whether it is a perception problem or not, this past week I noticed my first crow's feet. There is absolutely no doubt, I look my age.
But what does that mean? I remember the ladies of a certain age from my youth as a mostly invisible group of people useful mainly for cooking and cleaning. Well, I never learned to cook and pretty much I clean when the spirit moves me.
I hope you young snots appreciate how hard it is to keep inventing new ways of being in the world for you to adapt when your turn comes.
*Winks*
So, okie dokie, I'm not young. I'm not middle aged. But I'm not old yet, I dun think. (I keep pushing back the definition of "old"; I used to be sure 70 year olds were "old" but these days, I'm not so sure.) I'm not a "senior" (somehow that just feels too academic), I'm not "mature" (never really held that as a goal, I admit), so just exactly WTF am I?
We need a new language for aging in this country, and new visions of what aging means. When I was young, women my age were almost interchangable. Same clothing, same hair styles, same everything. Men clung to viability a bit longer, but eventually fell into society's junk heap as well. I'm unsure what the hell to buy in clothing stores anymore. Am I still jeans-eligible? I want rebellious clothing, fun clothing, cool clothing -- but is that even possible now?
I finally let my hair color go natural. Lots of white, a little brown -- it ain't a bad color, actually. No one has seen my natural hair color in thirty years; even I didn't know what to expect. And whether it is a perception problem or not, this past week I noticed my first crow's feet. There is absolutely no doubt, I look my age.
But what does that mean? I remember the ladies of a certain age from my youth as a mostly invisible group of people useful mainly for cooking and cleaning. Well, I never learned to cook and pretty much I clean when the spirit moves me.
I hope you young snots appreciate how hard it is to keep inventing new ways of being in the world for you to adapt when your turn comes.
*Winks*