The Age Crisis
I am a 27 year old woman. My self-image however is still hovering
between 18 and 20. The frightening reality is that I've entered
the time in my life where things begin to change unwilled. Granted,
many things will change for the better. I hope to be far more
self-possessed in my next 20 years than I was in my first. I will
better understand both myself and others and be granted a measure
more diplomacy and tact through the wisdom of age. I will suffer
less criticism at the hands of my family and I will command more
respect at work. These are the good things that come with age.
I realize that it's important to weigh those good things against
the horror of the not-so-great things that are happening as a
result of aging. But how can I remain positive and upbeat when
I am being beaten down into a new category, a new "lifestage"
(what marketers call your relative proximity to death).
Where I used to be able to confidently check the 18-25 box in
any online survey, I am now behooved to suffer the mediocre ignominy
of placing myself into their humdrum 26-35 range. At least when
I was 18-25 there seemed some possibility that I was a wild and
crazy person of varied interests. I was suspected of coolness,
of being very good with computers, of having multiple body piercings
in onerous locations and of speaking a different language entirely
from those of lifestage 26-35.
But now, there is no possibility. Where I was once surveyed
as to my Kraft Dinner loyalty I am now upsold to Cheddar Scalloped
Potatoes. Instead of getting to do the "Pepsi Taste Test Challenge"
I am now asked if the Amaretto commercial appeals to me as a career
woman. Good lord!
They didn't produce Kraft Dinner Singles for people like me.
I am no longer in the Pepsi Generation. I am family sized, best
buy, more for less, and a confirmed Coke drinker. Not that I wasn't
always a Coke drinker -- but let's face it, only old farts like
us drink Coke. Youth knows that Pepsi is cooler. Their ad campaign
(which was but is no longer targeted to me) says so.
Now, I can't place the blame of aging directly on marketers.
While they're certainly doing their share to make me feel older
than I really ought to, I confess that I'm doing a good deal of
self-aging.
I am changing in various, insidious ways. I am using moisturizer
before I go to bed. I am taking care to get enough sleep. I am
worrying about stress. I am answering the phone like my mother.
I'm scanning my head for gray hairs. Worst of all, I am catching
myself saying things I never thought I'd say. Ever.
"Time Flies."
This is something old people say. It means "Holy hell, where'd
my youth go?"
I remember my grandmother telling me that life is like a rollercoaster
ride. Slow to start. Blurry in the middle. And you're sick when
it ends. I thought she was just bitter. Turns out she was right.
I'm always saying stupid things like "My god! Where did this week
go?" Instead of whining the way I used to about how slowly the
day is going and watching the clock like a fiend I am consistently
caught by surprise at the end of the day, confused because the
last time I registered the time I was eating my morning muffin.
Bran, of course.
"It's so late!"
This is something boring people say. It means "I am the consummate
poop of any party."
I can't stay until the club closes anymore. I'm lucky if I can
stay awake until last call. In fact, I consider myself darned
daring even going in the first place. When friends (usually the
younger than me variety) call me up all jazzed to go to this or
that club the first question I ask is "Will we get in at a decent
hour?" I hate not leaving the house until it's club-time. Where
I used to consider that the ultimate in chic antipathy, now I
find it annoying. Why must the night start so damned late? Is
there no fun to be had prior to midnight? Even if I do agree to
meet them in the 11:30pm lineup I can't be counted on not to fall
asleep on my couch waiting for the evening to begin.
"New Year's Eve is for family."
This is something unromantic slobs say. It means "I don't have
to dress in an uncomfortable cocktail dress and wear ridiculous
high heels for the benefit of my Auntie Maude."
When did the idea of a big, everyone-you-know-in-one-drunken-ballroom-along-with-15
thousand-strangers, kissing-someone-completely-inappropriate-at
midnight, gala-type New Year's Eve party become less preferable
to a quiet night in with your partner or, worse, your parents?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot? Too late. I can barely remember
the social life I once had!
"I only wear makeup on special occasions."
This is something plain janes say. It means "I'm not bothered
to put on lipstick before I go to the grocery store because I
don't care what people think of me now."
I have become a plain jane. The load of blather people spout
about natural beauty is only true in a natural beauty's case.
In my case, I need lipstick or I risk looking as plain as my paper
grocery bags. But it's just become too much trouble to brighten
up my smile before I face the public. I'm still making some attempt
before going out to clubs -- mind you, I lose half of it in the
puddle of drool which collects during the waiting to go out period.
"Chocolate cake goes straight to my thighs!"
This is something dumpy, thick-waisted old frumps say. It means
"I've already eaten my lifetime share of chocolate cake. Can't
you tell? Look at my cellulite!"
I used to be able to eat anything. And I did. But thighs, they
are a'changing. As you age, your metabolism slows. This makes
for a nasty surprise as you realize that the dimples forming on
your thighs are not as "cute" as you'd like to imagine or considered
a respectable mark of experience by society at large. This realization
usually comes just after having downed 3 double fudge brownies
and a strawberry milkshake. Too late to stop the coming onslaught
of ever more fat corpuscles on your ballooning thighs, you can
only sit back (in your knee length, old lady shorts) and wait
for the inevitable.
"Not tonight, honey."
This is something that cold, sexless, fridgidaires say. It means
"I don't feel sexy anymore and I'm going to punish both of us
for it."
It's not as bad as all that, but I can admit to experiencing
a slightly lowered interest in sex on days where I have discovered
more than one new gray hair or tested the diminishing resilience
of my skin at the behest of some stupid collagen skin cream commercial.
When I realize that my body is in the quiet process of mutiny,
my sex drive goes AWOL. Perhaps it should be the opposite. I should
dive into sex with all the enthusiasm of soon to be parted lovers
-- because that's the fate that awaits the love affair between
me and my 18-25 lifesegmented body. Parting is such sweet sorrow.
"Kids these days!"
This is something that stuffy, boring people say. It means "I
have no recollection of what it was like to be 15."
While I do remember what it was like to be a teenager, I can't
claim to be entirely comfortable with the language and the clothes
and the music of today's youth. It bugs me how loud they are.
It rouses my condescension that they think they look good in 4
foot wide bright pink animal striped fun fur bellbottoms. It pisses
me off that they think of me as an alien when, very clearly, they're
the weirdos. And I hate that panhandlers have started calling
me "M'am." Gah!
I guess if I polled every generation that came before me, I'd
quickly learn that just about every woman goes through this stuff
as she realizes her body is on the brink of over-ripeness. In
fact, women who have already crossed over into lifesegment 36-45
are probably tut-tutting and eyeballing me in much the same way
as I am eyeballing the next generation.
Well, let them. I deserve my moment of panic. My youth was a
beautiful, sexy, stupid time that I'm going to miss terribly in
many ways. I find it so hard to believe that I am actually going
to have to accept the deconstruction of my lipids and the blurring
of my features. I am convinced that there must be some kind of
complaints boards I can register with to have this whole thing
turned around in 6 to 8 weeks. Mind you, 6 to 8 weeks in lifesegment
26-35 pass like 6 to 8 minutes in the lifesegment of Kraft Dinner
and Pepsi Cola. And they say kids have a short attention span!
I can barely stay awake long enough to witness the passing of
days.
My grandmother was right. The rollercoaster ride goes fast in
the middle. My career, my sense of self, my destiny are all flying
into my face faster than I think my stomach can handle. Frankly,
I think it's natural to miss the slow, hopeful trucking up the
track. When speed towards the end was still a lifestage away.
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