On Aging and Momming and Really Bad Math

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.

Check in every few days and see what horrors middle age and motherhood have Birthday Cake from The Big Daythrust upon me. And maybe to pick up some tips on how to get through it without (too much) wine.

Hey, if we have to get older, the least we can do is laugh about it.


  1. Kira, Beth's sister says

    43 is not the new anything, it is simply 43. For me, it is being the mother of teenagers, it is finally being respected for having experience as a career woman, it is not crying when you argue with your husband and it is about realizing that life is full of cycles and god knows where you sit in the current one.
    Sadly, I can finally afford some more expensive clothes, yet I can no longer bare as much skin (don’t want to freak out complete strangers) and frankly my feet are killing me most of the time. The flip side is that I am the mother of teenagers, a perk being that family movie night can involve movies I stay awake through (as long it starts by 8:30), when I offer my opinion at meetings it is from a position of power and when I argue with my husband we cut to the chase to avoid the drama.

    I now listen much more closely when older women share their experiences, knowing that I am closer to menopause than STDs and my bar bill is much lower as many times I am done after happy hour or one or two drinks does the trick these days.
    So, 43 has seen some mileage, but mileage that helps us keep life in better perspective than we did at 40 and before. This age offers up the insight that we have a lot of aging still to do, so we may as well appreciate the elasticity our skin has left and spend good money on fabulous coats and bags because we will never get our money’s worth out of that ridiculously expensive sleeveless top!

  2. says

    Stop! Your’e scaring me. I *just* turned forty. Maybe I should have waited a few months to settle into it before I clicked over. 😉

    Congrats on the new blog! You always make me laugh, even as your dose of reality smacks me in my increasingly lined face.

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