The other half

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.

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This is not to say that I haven’t been feeling my own mortality lately. In fact, I think that’s one of the true hallmarks of middle age — casual dinner conversation with your girlfriends is no longer about which cute boy said what and when; it’s now about all the nauseating details of our latest medical procedures.

(If someone had told me 20 years ago I would become one of those women who talks about menopause in public, I would have stabbed myself in the eye on principle. But there you have it.)

Ahem. So yeah, the big 4-5. I have mixed feelings about this birthday. I don’t think it’s going to be as painful as 35, which sent me spiraling into a deep depression. That year was very near the lowest point in my drinking, so my despair was probably more about circling THAT drain than the candles on my cake.

Turning 40, on the other hand, felt like emancipation. I was strong in sobriety, had just escaped a tumultuous relationship and decided to start my own business. (Which is still the best career decision I ever made, by the way.) As far as awesome years go, that would be a tough one to beat. I’m definitely not feeling the same sense of joy about 45.

See? Mixed emotions.

To get myself into the birthday spirit, I got to thinking about some truly liberating things I’ve realized about this phase of my life. Things about getting older that serve as a reminder that, when it comes down to it, I am grateful to be alive and can’t wait to find out what’s in store for my second act.

1. My body won’t allow me to do bad things to it anymore.  
Get your mind out of the gutter. I’m talking about eating like shit. I used to be able to eat deep-fried fats and carbs, sugary treats and anything else with no discernable nutritional content, and suffer no ill effects. My metabolism and gastrointestinal fortitude ruled, man.

Today, my body rebels. It actually needs shit like kale and spinach. It tastes good to me, and I crave it. If I eat much sugar and starch, I feel like death. And greasy food pokes my acid reflux bear. I just cannot get away with bad eating habits anymore.

I can hear you asking, “And this is liberating, how?” In order for me to change my behavior, extreme circumstances must come into play. (Read how I quit drinking here for just one example.)

See, my body not-so-subtly telling me I need to take better care of it if I want to be around for the next 45 years is a good thing. It is effectually forcing me to be healthy. This may sound nuts, but it’s actually working for me. I am happy about it. I figure, I ate enough French fries in my 20s and 30s to last a lifetime. It’s time to give quinoa a turn on the tilt-a-whirl.

2. My days of trying to look like a supermodel are over.  
For one, I am past my prime and couldn’t pass for a supermodel with all the shellac and spandex on God’s green Earth. And for two, I am no longer expected to put forth that kind of effort. Frump is acceptable on 40-something women.

We are no longer seen as potential babymakers and/or hot pieces of ass. ThankyoubabyJesus. Quite simply, women of a certain age can get away with sweats and a ball cap at the grocery because no one is checking them out.

Being invisible is a beautiful thing. I have given myself total permission to wear what I want. If clothes do not feel good on my body or require too much maintenance like, I don’t know, ironing, I don’t wear them. Function wins over form every time.

How’s this for irony? When I was 25, I wouldn’t walk out my front door without a full face on. Now that I actually need makeup to cover up the 45 years of damage I’ve done to my skin, I am less inclined to put it on. I’ve got one wonky eyebrow that I’ll fill in so I don’t scare small children, but other than that, I am au naturel at Target and Kroger.

A big part of this attitude, of course, is that I am finally, FINALLY, comfortable in my own skin. I feel free to be me because YOU don’t dictate who that is anymore. BOOM.

(For the record, I do put on decent clothes and fix my face when I meet with clients. But I still refuse to iron. Knit blends are my jam.)

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3. It’s a hell of lot easier to be an introvert at 45 than 25.
At some point in the past few years, I broke free from the need to see and be seen. I like staying home on the weekends and feel zero pressure to be a social butterfly.

I’ve come to realize that I have always been an outgoing introvert. (Read more about that here.) Back in the day, I would put on a happy face and slog a few drinks to build up enthusiasm for a night on the town because that’s what was expected. I felt like a big ol’ loser if I was home on a Saturday night. But more often than not, socializing wore me out, and I longed for my couch.

Middle age and introversion go together like peas and carrots. Nothing and nobody are pressuring me to go out all the time, and I wouldn’t fucking go if they were. My friends also accept my introvert self and don’t get pissed when I stay home. “I am not feeling it tonight” is a perfectly acceptable reason to turn down an invitation.

Don’t get me wrong, I still like to have fun. The difference is, now I only do it on my own terms.

4. My quirks are endearing instead of annoying.
When you’re young, standing out or generally being a weirdo is a bad thing. As I have gotten older, though, I have found that a certain amount of eccentric behavior is not only accepted, it is expected.

I mean, hello? Ever heard of a midlife crisis?
 
I have gotten four tattoos and a nose ring in the past three years. All I had to do was blame them on my midlife crisis, and no one has batted an eye. In fact, the reaction I get most often is a knowing nod and a smile.

While I publicly blame middle age, in private I’m crediting it for finally giving me the balls to do things I’ve wanted to do for 20 years. Again, it goes back to giving myself permission to live my truth. That truth just happens to involve body art.

5. People assume I know what I am doing.
This is, by far, the best part of getting older. When I was starting my career, I vividly remember being spoken to and treated like I didn’t have a clue. While that was mostly true, it was frustrating as hell. Even into my 30s, older executives would take one look at my baby face and dismiss my opinions. I had to fight for a seat at the table and to be taken seriously, all the damn time.

This is the exact opposite of how I am treated today. Not just in business, either. Even my own parents call me for advice about cooking or household repairs. (And, of course, how to text and use Facebook.)

These ol’ wrinkles are coming in handy. I no longer have to spend time at the beginning of a business relationship establishing my credentials. My work and experience speak for themselves. I have to say, it’s really awesome when a client trusts me so blindly, er, I mean completely. (Cue evil laughter.) Don’t worry, unlike certain people in Washington, I only use my powers for good and not evil.

But I digress.

Overall, there are lots more pluses than minuses to middle age. I could go on and on. My son is grown and out of the house, and I’m rockin’ a great career. I have more financial and emotional stability than, well, ever. And I’m all about tolerance and acceptance, not just of the world around me, but of myself.

As I approach the anniversary of my birth, I can’t help but wonder what’s in store for me on the other side of it.

Half dead? Maybe. God willing and the creek don’t rise, though, I’ve got a lot of living yet to do.

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