Feeling My Age


Seeing that sentence on this screen causes me cognitive dissonance. Just how and when did this happen? I still feel, like, 28. OK, fine, 29.  People who are 50 used to seem… old. Yet time has marched steadily forward, and I have begun my 50th year and will complete it, God willing, next July.


So many candles. Image from here.

What happened to my 40s?! I remember turning 40 and feeling like, finally, I’m a Legitimate Adult. I fretted about 39 and fretted still more as 40 approached, but that milestone birthday came and went and then I continued blissfully into those mid-decade years where you can forget how old you are and have to do the math to figure it out. (Just me?) I guess I just put my head down and charged forward, responding to the demands of busy family life, and all of a sudden, I’m about to bid my 40s farewell.

Now that my oldest boys are pursuing post-secondary education and the “baby” is in middle school, it’s time to do some planning. Life has kind of been happening to me while I wasn’t paying attention, and there are many pressing grown-uppy things I need to address: Fun things, such as retirement planning (as if I’ll actually be able to “retire”), where to live, where to travel (that’s a long list)… in short, what will the second half of my life look like? It’s overwhelming to think of it all, but these items and more are on my list and I’m slowly checking off the boxes.

Aging is not all bad. People tend to take you more seriously when you reveal your are of a certain age. I have completely earned the right to say things such as:

”I’ve been a mom for 20 years, and…” (and then I think, two decades?? Wait, did my babies grow up, too?).

“When I started work, we didn’t even *have* webmail” (to the employee about to go out on maternity leave, fully expecting she’d check her email daily).

“When my kids were in daycare, they didn’t have apps to send us photos and videos during the workday” (to the mom who just returned to work after her maternity leave).

“My period is such an insult. Why must women have it until their 50s? Nobody our age is having babies!” (To any woman who will listen. And to some men, too.)

Oh, I love babies, but you could not pay me enough to be pregnant again. I’m so happy those days are behind me. I feel damn lucky to have gone 3-for-3, but so certain was I that the last one, at age 37, was going to be The Last One, that at my first prenatal visit I asked the doctor to schedule my C-section and I told him to add a tubal ligation while he was in there conducting business.

But other people’s babies? Oh, how I love tiny humans. I am going to make an excellent grandmother. Someday. Not anytime soon, I hope.  But I seem to have become that doting older woman who will grab your baby out of your hands so fast it’ll make your head spin.

Recently, I was hanging out on an apartment rooftop near the communal gas grill when a young dad approached, balancing all his cooking tools, meat, and marinade on the top of his baby’s stroller. He was trying really hard to do it all, but the baby was starting to fuss. So, I went over and was like, hey, do you need some help? Let me help you. Want me to hold your baby? He hesitated, so I said, my name is Meg, and now that we know each other PLEASE GIVE ME YOUR BABY. And he did! He finished his grilling, I got to inhale the wonderful scent of warm-baby-head, and everyone was happy.

My skin is drooping and my weight is shifting and some days I feel, well, creaky. But I appreciate the wisdom that comes with each passing year and know I’m fortunate to have my health and my sanity. I’m excited for all that life holds in store for me and am grateful for each day I’m given.

Next stop: Frumpyville

While walking on Connecticut Avenue in DC recently, I made a beeline for took a detour through Filene’s Basement, just for some retail therapy to see what was on sale.  I was feeling like my work wardrobe was suffering in the “tops” department, and also in need of a basic black skirt in a size that fits me. My time was limited – I had to get back to work – no time to try things on. So, I grabbed one of these off of the rack: August silk drape collar cardigan

It was a dark heather gray, with a matching sleeveless top in the same color. For layering. It looked comfy, and stretchy, and I was sure it would match the rest of my drab wardrobe.  And that, I was okay with. I don’t dress to impress when I head to the office. I dress so that my attire does not distract from my mad human resources skillz.

The first day I wore it, I declared it the Most Comfortable Sweater Set EVER. It was flowy. Swingy. Maybe even almost Sassy! I liked how the shawl collar draped, and was pleased with the layered effect. It looked fine with a long skirt and boots.

But when I wore the ensemble again today, with a pair of plain black slacks and black clogs, I made a startling discovery. I entered the office ladies’ room, with its large mirrors and unforgiving fluorescent lighting and was horrified to see this lady staring back at me: Beaarthur

“GAAAH!” I screamed inside my head, and flinched, for only then did I realize the sad truth: I have started dressing like a Golden Girl.

I am becoming Bea Arthur 

I squinted at my image in the mirror. No gray hair – but only because I’d recently applied an all-over brown-hued color. Underneath, it’s closer to Bea’s color than I ought to admit. My facial skin is starting its inevitable surrender to the relentless pull of gravity. And – let’s be honest here – that swishy, swirly sweater? Is designed to hide my spare tire muffin top and my expanding rear end.

It occurred to me that I’m not fooling anyone in my strategically-draped garb. But my subsequent thought, that should have been an epiphany, was actually anticlimactic. And here it is: Meh. Big deal.

I have accepted that my body just ain’t what it used to be. I mean, I’ve been travelling around in it for more than four decades; it’s bound to be showing some wear by now. To the extent my health is not compromised, I’m content to drape flowy gray knits around my midsection. I accept that the jeans at J Crew and Banana Republic just aren’t made for my body type. I don’t mind, really, that I can’t wear cute high heels or strappy sandals, lest I risk further damage to my already-messed-up feet. I know that capris are more flattering (or less unflattering?) for my body type than shorts. (Even long-ish shorts.)

Of course, this means accepting that I’m not getting any younger. I’m hurtling towards middle age, and it shows.  The wheels are slowly starting to fall off… but as long as they can be repaired, and the vehicle remains in good, functional condition – WHO CARES WHAT I DRESS IT IN? I have read that women reach a certain age and begin to accept and even love themselves, and I think I’m just about there.  And I can smile as I write that. Sincerely.


Words on Women and Strength

I’m sitting here with a tear in my eye after viewing this video. Ladies, if you have 5 minutes and need a reminder of the strength that sustains us and the value of friendship, grab a kleenex and give this a look-see.

(Guys, you’re welcome to watch, too, but you’re not going to understand this they way the girls will.)

Consider this a long-distance dedication to all my female friends – the ones I grew up with, the college pals, friends from first jobs and recent, neighbors, sisters, cousins, and my new blog pals. Thanks for all the support and love. Thanks for being a friend.