Nobody Warned Me Midlife Would Be Like This
There are things women are told about getting older. We know there will be wrinkles. We know our hair may turn gray. Menopause has certainly received enough publicity that most of us understand it will eventually arrive, although the advertising usually features a remarkably serene woman in white linen standing near the ocean rather than someone ripping off the covers at 2:17 in the morning because she has suddenly become a human furnace. We are told to protect our bones, maintain our muscle, get enough protein, wear sunscreen and make peace with gravity. There is, however, a considerable amount of information missing from the brochure.
Nobody tells you that at some point getting down on the floor and getting back up will become two entirely separate physical activities. One day you sit down cross-legged without giving it a thought, and twenty minutes later you are surveying nearby furniture like a stranded hiker looking for rescue equipment. The coffee table is too low. The sofa is too far away. The dining chair suddenly looks like salvation. You begin calculating whether you can crawl toward it without anyone walking into the room and discovering that a perfectly competent adult woman has apparently lost the ability to achieve vertical.
The most irritating part is that you remember when none of this required planning. I took ballet for years when I was young and could once stand from a cross-legged position using only my legs. Decades later, I sat on the floor wrapping Christmas presents, remembered that little trick and thought, I'm sure I can still do that. I could not. I tried more than once, which suggests that optimism sometimes survives considerably longer than quadriceps strength. Eventually I found myself crawling toward a dining room chair surrounded by wrapping paper and bows, having transformed a festive holiday activity into an exercise in basic survival.
Then there are the bodily developments that arrive without so much as a courtesy email. You sneeze and discover that your bladder has apparently been given independent decision-making authority. You stand up after sitting too long and make a noise you don't remember authorizing. You begin choosing shoes according to criteria that would have horrified your younger self: But could I walk through Target in them? Comfort stops sounding like something your grandmother cared about and starts sounding downright luxurious. You haven't given up on looking good. You would simply prefer to look good without losing circulation to your lower extremities.
And somewhere in the middle of all this, you realize how much time women spend maintaining themselves. There is the hair appointment, the skincare, the pedicure, the exercise, the supplements and the growing collection of things somebody has suggested we should be doing so that we can age naturally while displaying as little evidence of natural aging as possible. We are apparently allowed to grow older now, but there are conditions. Silver hair is wonderful if it is gorgeous silver hair. Wrinkles are empowering if the skin beneath them glows. An older body is celebrated if it remains lean, strong and carefully maintained. We have made progress, but there still seems to be an entrance exam for aging correctly.
I am becoming increasingly selective about which portions of that exam I intend to take. I still like beautiful clothes. I enjoy having my hair done. I appreciate good skincare and a pretty pedicure. There are also things gravity is currently doing to my neck that I am monitoring with suspicion. Acceptance does not require enthusiasm. I can recognize that my body is aging without standing in front of the mirror every morning applauding each new development. If my turkey neck and I eventually reach an irreconcilable difference, I reserve the right to call somebody with a medical degree and excellent before-and-after photographs. Until then, we're coexisting. It knows I know it's there.
The surprising thing about midlife is that while the body becomes somewhat less predictable, the woman living inside it may become considerably more so. I know what I like now. I know what I don't. I no longer need to attend every event, join every organization, impress every person or squeeze myself into clothes that punish me for eating lunch. I can admire another woman's life without needing to reproduce it. I can be invited somewhere and decide I'd rather stay home. I can buy the sparkly loafers simply because I think they're fabulous. And I can finally admit that an empty afternoon on my calendar does not constitute an emergency requiring immediate scheduling. The manuscript calls this a shift from seeing a full calendar as proof of a full life to seeing white space as room to think, create, change your mind—or occasionally do absolutely nothing.
There are things women are told about getting older. We know there will be wrinkles. We know our hair may turn gray. Menopause has certainly received enough publicity that most of us understand it will eventually arrive, although the advertising usually features a remarkably serene woman in white linen standing near the ocean rather than someone ripping off the covers at 2:17 in the morning because she has suddenly become a human furnace. We are told to protect our bones, maintain our muscle, get enough protein, wear sunscreen and make peace with gravity. There is, however, a considerable amount of information missing from the brochure.
Nobody tells you that at some point getting down on the floor and getting back up will become two entirely separate physical activities. One day you sit down cross-legged without giving it a thought, and twenty minutes later you are surveying nearby furniture like a stranded hiker looking for rescue equipment. The coffee table is too low. The sofa is too far away. The dining chair suddenly looks like salvation. You begin calculating whether you can crawl toward it without anyone walking into the room and discovering that a perfectly competent adult woman has apparently lost the ability to achieve vertical.
The most irritating part is that you remember when none of this required planning. I took ballet for years when I was young and could once stand from a cross-legged position using only my legs. Decades later, I sat on the floor wrapping Christmas presents, remembered that little trick and thought, I'm sure I can still do that. I could not. I tried more than once, which suggests that optimism sometimes survives considerably longer than quadriceps strength. Eventually I found myself crawling toward a dining room chair surrounded by wrapping paper and bows, having transformed a festive holiday activity into an exercise in basic survival.
Then there are the bodily developments that arrive without so much as a courtesy email. You sneeze and discover that your bladder has apparently been given independent decision-making authority. You stand up after sitting too long and make a noise you don't remember authorizing. You begin choosing shoes according to criteria that would have horrified your younger self: But could I walk through Target in them? Comfort stops sounding like something your grandmother cared about and starts sounding downright luxurious. You haven't given up on looking good. You would simply prefer to look good without losing circulation to your lower extremities.
And somewhere in the middle of all this, you realize how much time women spend maintaining themselves. There is the hair appointment, the skincare, the pedicure, the exercise, the supplements and the growing collection of things somebody has suggested we should be doing so that we can age naturally while displaying as little evidence of natural aging as possible. We are apparently allowed to grow older now, but there are conditions. Silver hair is wonderful if it is gorgeous silver hair. Wrinkles are empowering if the skin beneath them glows. An older body is celebrated if it remains lean, strong and carefully maintained. We have made progress, but there still seems to be an entrance exam for aging correctly.
I am becoming increasingly selective about which portions of that exam I intend to take. I still like beautiful clothes. I enjoy having my hair done. I appreciate good skincare and a pretty pedicure. There are also things gravity is currently doing to my neck that I am monitoring with suspicion. Acceptance does not require enthusiasm. I can recognize that my body is aging without standing in front of the mirror every morning applauding each new development. If my turkey neck and I eventually reach an irreconcilable difference, I reserve the right to call somebody with a medical degree and excellent before-and-after photographs. Until then, we're coexisting. It knows I know it's there.
The surprising thing about midlife is that while the body becomes somewhat less predictable, the woman living inside it may become considerably more so. I know what I like now. I know what I don't. I no longer need to attend every event, join every organization, impress every person or squeeze myself into clothes that punish me for eating lunch. I can admire another woman's life without needing to reproduce it. I can be invited somewhere and decide I'd rather stay home. I can buy the sparkly loafers simply because I think they're fabulous. And I can finally admit that an empty afternoon on my calendar does not constitute an emergency requiring immediate scheduling. The manuscript calls this a shift from seeing a full calendar as proof of a full life to seeing white space as room to think, create, change your mind—or occasionally do absolutely nothing.
Perhaps that is the trade midlife offers us. We lose a little cartilage and gain a little discernment. Our knees become less cooperative while our tolerance for nonsense undergoes a remarkable improvement. We may require reading glasses to inspect a restaurant menu, but we can see certain parts of our lives more clearly than we ever did at twenty-five. The body occasionally leaks, creaks, sags or refuses an assignment it once performed without complaint, while the woman inside that body becomes increasingly comfortable saying, No, I don't think I want to do that anymore.
I don't want to romanticize getting older. Some of it is difficult, some of it hurts, and some of it is simply annoying. I also don't want to spend these years mourning every previous version of myself. Nineteen-year-old me had smoother skin, stronger legs and considerably better odds of surviving a sneeze with her dignity intact. She also spent far too much time worrying about whether everybody liked her and whether she was doing womanhood correctly. I wouldn't trade minds with her for anything.
That may be why I find the indignities funnier now. They don't erase everything else I am. I can be confident, capable, creative and completely in charge of my life while simultaneously realizing that I should have gone to the bathroom before I sneezed. Those truths are allowed to occupy the same woman. In fact, that may be one of the great pleasures of midlife: discovering that we no longer have to present ourselves as polished, perfectly composed finished products. We can tell the embarrassing story, laugh until we have tears in our eyes and—given the subject matter—perhaps cross our legs while we're doing it.
There is far too much indignity involved in being human to waste all of it by pretending it isn't funny. And if getting older is going to keep supplying the material, I intend to keep taking notes. That sentiment is right at home in I Pee When I Sneeze and Other Midlife Observations, where the larger point is not that every awkward change needs to become a lesson, but that at 53, some of the things a younger woman might have found horrifying can become pretty damn funny.
Perhaps that is the trade midlife offers us. We lose a little cartilage and gain a little discernment. Our knees become less cooperative while our tolerance for nonsense undergoes a remarkable improvement. We may require reading glasses to inspect a restaurant menu, but we can see certain parts of our lives more clearly than we ever did at twenty-five. The body occasionally leaks, creaks, sags or refuses an assignment it once performed without complaint, while the woman inside that body becomes increasingly comfortable saying, No, I don't think I want to do that anymore.
I don't want to romanticize getting older. Some of it is difficult, some of it hurts, and some of it is simply annoying. I also don't want to spend these years mourning every previous version of myself. Nineteen-year-old me had smoother skin, stronger legs and considerably better odds of surviving a sneeze with her dignity intact. She also spent far too much time worrying about whether everybody liked her and whether she was doing womanhood correctly. I wouldn't trade minds with her for anything.
That may be why I find the indignities funnier now. They don't erase everything else I am. I can be confident, capable, creative and completely in charge of my life while simultaneously realizing that I should have gone to the bathroom before I sneezed. Those truths are allowed to occupy the same woman. In fact, that may be one of the great pleasures of midlife: discovering that we no longer have to present ourselves as polished, perfectly composed finished products. We can tell the embarrassing story, laugh until we have tears in our eyes and—given the subject matter—perhaps cross our legs while we're doing it.
There is far too much indignity involved in being human to waste all of it by pretending it isn't funny. And if getting older is going to keep supplying the material, I intend to keep taking notes. That sentiment is right at home in I Pee When I Sneeze and Other Midlife Observations, where the larger point is not that every awkward change needs to become a lesson, but that at 53, some of the things a younger woman might have found horrifying can become pretty damn funny.
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