So this is Middle Age
I turned 35 last month. I went to school; I'm well aware this means I am now closer to 40 than I am to 30. And to be honest, I didn't think much of it. Mid-thirties didn't signify an unusual call to arms; I never viewed my mid-thirties as a set point in which I must reflect and evaluate and buy a sports car to validate my existence. 35 kind of just meant more of the same. Hanging with the kids, surviving my job, occasional nights out with friends drinking two cocktails before retreating back home to put on sweats and take off my bra.
And then I had to make a visit to the podiatrist because my feet ache horrifically when I wake up in the morning. The doctor, while inspecting my feet, looks at me and says matter of factly: “Well, this is a pretty typical ailment for middle aged folks.” Cue an awkward pause and some vigorous squinting and nose crinkling.
Slow your roll there, doc and let’s back up. Maybe you misheard me. I'm 35. Since when does 35 count as middle age?! After some strange squeaky noises, I proceed to plead my case and tell him he is in fact, quite mistaken. I still get zits! Surely this signifies that I have not yet crossed over to the land where everyone is worldly and mature and blemish-free. He clarifies that middle age is a range, but 35 is most definitely the onset. Refusing to back down on this one, I begin to protest some more, but he is not budging. Are you hearing me? I just got carded yesterday! That has to count for something! But as I am whining and sending him evil vibes as he prods my feet, it occurs to me that the very fact that I HAVE A PODIATRIST might be my first clue that maybe I’m not the spritely nymph of yesteryear.
There’s other evidence too, if I really want to look. And I don’t, but it starts to infiltrate my brain like a sneak attack from all angles. WHOOSH! A few weeks ago my teenage babysitter stopped mid-sentence in the middle of her story to make sure I knew what a meme was. BAM! Those chin hairs I have to pluck now that weren’t an issue 5 years ago! POW! If someone suggests starting a movie after 8 pm, I will laugh at them and then scowl as I skulk off to bed. GAH! It hurts.
And I don’t know quite how to feel about it. Thirty-five felt like a barely mentionable birthday, a non-event if you will. But middle age? This feels so much more pressing, and like a whole different ball game. Middle age means we are coming up on the mid-way point of our lives, which is heavy and forces all sorts of questions. It also conjures up images of a stage of life that I associated with mature folks who make their bed every morning and don't use Groupons to buy their bras.* This revelation flipped me into a sort of tailspin of self-doubt and panic, because I guess I'd thought that by this point in my life, middle age, I'd be out of excuses and wouldn't constantly be on the cusp of being better, and I'd just BE better.
And I don’t know quite how to feel about it. Thirty-five felt like a barely mentionable birthday, a non-event if you will. But middle age? This feels so much more pressing, and like a whole different ball game. Middle age means we are coming up on the mid-way point of our lives, which is heavy and forces all sorts of questions. It also conjures up images of a stage of life that I associated with mature folks who make their bed every morning and don't use Groupons to buy their bras.* This revelation flipped me into a sort of tailspin of self-doubt and panic, because I guess I'd thought that by this point in my life, middle age, I'd be out of excuses and wouldn't constantly be on the cusp of being better, and I'd just BE better.
And then a week ago I found an old journal of mine that had sporadic entries from my twenties. I found an entry that spoke to me and reminded me that basically at every age I've thought it's about time to get it together. This particular entry was written the night before my 27th birthday and was titled "THINGS YOU SHOULD DO NOW THAT YOU'RE 27" (super original) and here are a few of my favorites that made the list:
- Stop hitting snooze 4 times in the morning!
- Stop using your purse as a garbage can!
- Stop volunteering so much information about yourself! It’s weird!
- Start wearing color! There are other colors besides white, grey and black, you know!
- Buy a key fob and stop waking everyone up to help you look for your keys in the morning!
- Learn how to spell the word rhythm without spell check (still nope).
Even at 27, I felt that I should have the details of my life squared away and become effortlessly chic and less socially awkward. Poor, sweet 27 year-old-me. She’d be pretty bummed to know that I still can’t see the bottom of my purse. Is there a certain point in your life when you kind of just become “better?” And what the hell does better even mean? At some point, do we just accept that these quirks are who we are and we don’t necessarily become classy or punctual or mellow just because we cross an age threshold? I think it’s a pretty safe bet that I will generally be running late, undoubtedly because I have misplaced my keys, and I’ll be a little bit awkward and volunteer information that no one wants to know. If we’re looking at the bright side here, one of the great things about “middle age” is that I care just a little bit less than I did in my youth. If you don’t want to hang with me because I told you an unsolicited story about that time I peed my pants, I get it. You’re probably not my people and I’m not yours. If you’re irritated by my showing up late, well, that’s on me because it’s annoying and seriously, get it together already! We can still strive. But maybe it's time to start asking better questions of ourselves.
The most pivotal question I can think to ask myself is, "Are you actually living the life you really, really want or are you waiting?" I look at my life, and there's much to be grateful for and proud of. I am raising two spirited and beautiful children alongside someone I adore. I've lived overseas, I'm gainfully employed and I've never kept up with the Kardashians. I'm doing OK by many accounts. But I'm also spending a little too much time on my couch watching Netflix, waiting for the perfect moment to live the life I dream about. But I'm coming up on the halfway mark according to cranky Mr. Podiatrist, and it may not be that long before I’m arguing with my ophthalmologist that I'm not old enough to have glaucoma! I have yet to see the Eiffel Tower, I haven’t written a book, and I have never completed a puzzle with more than 100 pieces. To quote my parents every time they had to wait for me to find my keys or my backpack or whatever I was doing to hold them up that particular day: "Let's go! We're not getting any younger!" Well, we're not getting any younger, and life is too short to do anything but run towards our dreams like we are on fire.** Like it or not, I’ve officially reached middle age, I’ve got stuff to do besides worrying about the garbage in my purse, and this stuff isn't going to do itself.
*Why do I keep referencing my bra?!
*Thanks, Pinterest!