A Woman of a Certain Age

Apparently, 2011 was the year I came to the sad realization that I have reached “that” age.  I hate to call it “middle age” because it sounds so… well… old.  But simple math tells me that, unless I live to be 150, I can no longer ignore the fact that I am, indeed, middle aged.  Crap!  Who let that happen?!?

Accepting this fact has been difficult.  I mean, I know it happens.  It happens to other people all the time.  I’ve read about it in magazines in line at the grocery store; I’ve seen it on television, in between reality shows.  The scary thing is that now those things are happening to me.  Ewwwww.

I’ve reached the age when:

• I can no longer count my gray hairs because I just don’t have that kind of time. 
• I can pluck at the skin on the back of my hand and watch it as it takes its time to move back into its locked and upright position.
• my teenaged daughter has waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay prettier lingerie than I do, but I have waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay more hairs on my chinny-chin-chin than my teenage son. 
• I produce all sorts of groany, creaky noises when making sudden moves (truth is, I produce those noises when I make any moves, but I can cover up the non-sudden move noises with a well-timed cough).   

It has become an odd experience to really look at myself in the mirror.  When I do, I see the girl-formerly-known-as-Annie, but the heavier, saggier, and well, OLDer version.  It’s like looking in a fun house mirror, minus the fun part.  Plus no funnel cakes.

My aforementioned teenage daughter insists she will NEVER have plastic surgery.  I made that same vow too, years ago, but now I’m considering reconsidering.  Who knew back then that you had eye pads that could get fat?  For Pete’s sake, who know we had eye pads?!?! 

And eye pads aren’t the only pads in my new old-fogey world.  I’m just sayin…’

In my younger days (and I’m old enough to be using phrases like, “in my younger days” un-sarcastically), my conversations were about sex, drugs, and rock’n’roll.  Now they’re more apt to be about taxes, what’s wrong with the world, and my latest failing body parts.  I use the word “apt.” If these aren’t indications of “a certain age,” what is? 

But though I regularly get mail from AARP (hey, what’s the use of attaining a certain age if you don’t get the discounts?!?), I don’t feel any more grown up than I did when I was in my 20s.  What’s up with that? 

I have all the earmarks of being a grown up.  My parents and most of the relatives on the upper branches of my family tree have gone on to their greater reward; I’m on the top layer of my family’s genealogical cake now.  I’m married, have children, own a house and two cars (well, I share them with the bank).  I run my own business.  I use the word “earmarks.”  And yet I still wonder what I’ll be like when I grow up.  How much more “up” do I expect to grow (especially since all my body parts seem to be headed in the opposite direction)?    

But there are a few benefits to this older-ness.  I can now mutter to myself with impunity.  I get a lot of exercise going in and out of the same room because I can’t remember why I went in in the first place.  But the best part:  I’m way too old to be cool, which gives me the freedom to embarrass my children by singing loudly and dancing inappropriately in public (I figure it’ll give them something to talk about with a therapist later in life). 

They should be getting nervous about my heading toward actual old age...