I don’t buy the new cultural zeitgeist that forty is thirty, thirty is twenty-one, and sixty is twenty-two. Has no one done the math?
And I’m not thirty. Just ask my crows’ feet and slackening jawline. If forty’s the new thirty, somebody forgot to tell my thighs. And my ovaries. Oh, and my neck. (And since I’m not Nora Ephron, if I hate my neck nobody cares.)
Somebody has to tell the truth about forty (OK OK 43). It’s not thirty, or even thirty five. It’s puckering elbows, and sagging knees, and not really wanting to go out clubbing. It’s not being considered hip no matter how many outfits you buy at Scoop or Intermix. It’s not looking appropriate in mini-dresses, no matter how many Core Fusion, Pilates, Gyrotonic torture sessions you’ve been to. It’s weighing the same but looking different. It’s being invisible to men under forty. It’s needing reading glasses…..or longer arms, seeing babies and knowing that’s not gonna be you anymore, realizing that all those insecurities you had in your twenties and even thirties were a colossal waste of time.
Forty is middle age. Let’s face it. And embrace it. And maybe sometimes rail against the Gods of aging for making it so.
But I’m more than my age. I’m mom to those two cuties in the banner. Although even they are older than that now. Even they have passed through infanthood, and babyhood, toddlerhood and little kid-hood (hey parallel structure allows fake words!). They’re pretty big kids now. They have attitude. They critique my clothing. But thank goodness they’re not above sitting on my lap or asking for a lullaby. They’re still my babies. And they still give me plenty to do and plenty to worry about.
Here on my blog I’m going to write about aging. Me aging. And maybe you. And I’m going to write about “Momming,” too. (I also write about motherhood here.)Hopefully, you’ll see a little of yourself in all of it. ‘Cause I know there’s gonna be a lot of me.
Hey, if we have to get older, the least we can do is laugh about it.