OK. I’m back.
And this time, I’m going to use this blog as an open journal to talk about the process and experience of aging.
Before you think it, I’m not “old” yet. But, I’m also not young.
The other day I was looking at grant applications for the arts and one of them was for “young adults” only. The age cut-off was 35. I am 37 and ticking upwards. Looking at the requirements, I suddenly realized that I’m no longer considered a “young” adult. I guess that means I’m just an “adult”.
At any rate, I don’t know many people around my age who are entirely comfortable with the fact that we are all getting older. Nostalgic is starting to creep into all of our conversations and I’m afraid that we’re only a few years away from entering into our anecdotage. To stave off my general anxiety about turning the big four-oh, I decided that I would focus my attention on exploring my feelings and thoughts, instead of running away from them and trying to pretend I’m still 29. (I know people who really do hold onto the number 29 or 30, long past the point where it isn’t ridiculous.)
We cannot avoid getting older, after all. We can learn to accept it, though, and maybe even begin to appreciate it. Though I have to admit I am a long, long way off from being able to say that I am looking forward to my forties and fifties.
So, in other words, this is my electronic record of my journey into my 40s. Along the way, I want to talk about cosmetics, fashion, marriage, divorce, sex, kids, creaking body parts and any other miscellaneous signs that middle age is fast approaching. My aging reports should – fingers crossed – be sometimes poignant, but mostly funny examinations at our American culture. A place where, the last time I checked, getting older was definitely not cool or acceptable. Especially in the youth-meccas of the cities.
37. *sigh* My most recent amateur self-analysis has me stuck at 26, but in fact I’m 51. Funny thing about aging, there’s always some sort of horrible threshold looming but it never really arrives. The changes are too gradual. Maybe that’s just me and it will hit me some day, hard and between the eyes. Actually, I’ve read that’s how men do it. We spend about thirty years feeling pretty much the same and then WHAM.
I once knew a lady who suddenly needed to get a bunch of action because she was convinced that once she turned 50 she would become invisible. I’m here to tell you that at least from the (perhaps meaningless) perspective of males (me anyway), 40 doesn’t mean anything and neither does 50. Do whatever you have to do to keep liking yourself and the rest will always fall into place.