 One of my favorite rom-coms from the early 1990s is a little-known film called “Prelude to a Kiss,” starring a luminous Meg Ryan at her quirkiest and a young, handsome Alec Baldwin before he developed a reputation as a narcissistic asshole.
It’s basically a body-swapping fantasy, in which Rita (Ryan) gets a kiss from an elderly stranger at her wedding at the precise moment they each wish they were old/young. Hijinks and hilarity ensue as Rita’s soul in the old dude’s body spends most of the movie trying to convince her new husband, Peter (Baldwin), that it’s really her under all that saggy skin and ear hair. When Rita and the old man finally switch back to their own bodies at the end, he says, “Can I give you two a piece of advice? Floss.”
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 I’ll be 45 next month. It occurred to me that this milestone birthday likely marks my true “middle age.” Yep, I am officially at the mid-point of my existence. Half dead, as it were.
The women in my family are a sturdy lot, particularly on my mother’s side, many of them living until age 90 or older. So, this is not naïveté on my part. It could actually happen. I feel fortunate that I’m more than likely going to grow into a wizened little old lady. If I make it another 45 years, I hope I inherit the spunk of my Aunt Pauline, who was still mowing her 2-acre yard in the heat of rural Mississippi summer just weeks before she passed at age 96.  I saw an article over the weekend that really spoke to me. In fact, the title could have been, “Amy’s Road Map to a Fulfilling Future.”
It wasn’t though. It was called, “6 Traits People with Attractive Energy Possess.” It basically said that you are what you attract, and I have found that to be true over my 43 years on this Earth. For the first 35 or so, my energy brought in more than a few people who were not good for me. So for my second act, I’ll be damned if I am going to waste time any more time on toxic relationships. I try to embody the six things listed in the article every day, but like most things in my life, they are a work in progress. When I was younger, I possessed none of these traits. It is only in middle age that I am able to see their value and aspire to them.  “Midlife: When the universe grabs your shoulders and tells you, ‘I'm not fucking around, use the gifts you were given.’ ” — Brene Brown
I love this quote so much that I want to hug it and squeeze it and name it George. Why? Because it is SO true. In my case, the universe also slapped me across both cheeks before I got the point. But I got it. In a major way. At age 43, I truly have stopped fucking around. In fact, I am embracing middle age in an aggressive (if slightly awkward) bear hug. First off, I had a midlife epiphany (NOT a crisis) when I turned 40 that impelled me to quit the corporate world and start my own business.  As I peered into my extra-strength magnifying makeup mirror this morning, I saw … my mother 25 years ago. Not just in the creases around my eyes, but the clothes, the attitude — all of it. I was beguiled and horrified at the same time.
Don’t get me wrong, my female parental unit is a classy, smart, sweet and loving woman. I would be lucky to inherit her grace, wisdom and patience. But every girl experiences a certain amount of shock and dismay when she realizes she has turned out exactly like her mother. It dawned on me during my sunrise epiphany that the reason my little momma (she’s 4’10”) frequently drives me bonkers is precisely because we are way too much alike. At 43, I hear myself doing and saying the very things she did and said at my age. Back then, I rolled my eyes or openly chastised her eccentricities. Today, they are my jam, man.  When I had trouble sending a PDF attachment via email to my insurance agent a couple weeks ago, she suggested I fax it to her.
“What the what?” I said. “Who does that anymore? And what dinosaur operation actually has a fax machine on which to fax, heretofore?” As it turns out, ahem, I do. When my rep suggested I fax her, my initial response was that I would have to go in search of a location to do so. Like Staples or the FedEx store. But as I glanced across my desk at my new-fangled printer display screen, I noticed for the first time in the nine months since I bought the damn thing that it has a gleaming “fax” icon, right next to “print” “scan” and “copy.” Color me embarrassed. All I had to do was plug my phone line in the back of it and, BAM. Fax me up, Scotty. |
About Amy HiggsA former newspaper columnist, Amy takes her random, slice-of-life stories to the web. After 12 years, she's still just saying. Archives
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