Becoming Middle Aged
My birthday was last Tuesday, October 25. Birthdays at my age are not something to get giddy about. I turned forty nine and I can no longer pretend that I’m not middle aged. With my ability to eat lots of ice cream at one sitting, there is no way I’m going to make it to 100. Who was I fooling, other than myself?
My definition of middle age used to be so simple. If you owned a recliner, listened to country music, watched NASCAR, and voted Republican, you were middle aged. Knowing that three of those things would absolutely never happen, I felt comfortable. Three years after announcing my definition to my sister when she turned fifty, I still like it, even when writing this in my recliner. I will never be middle aged by my very own definition. My body, however, is singing a different tune. Blake Shelton’s country version of “Footloose” may be popular with some, but Nine Inch Nails are banging out “Hurt” on my knees. My definition is no longer accurate and I have learned, not that simple. I can’t quite put my finger on why this is bothering me so much, but I think my problem is more mental than physical, which is why I’ve been struggling to write this post for two weeks. My body is older, but I’m not any wiser.
Middle aged is supposed to be the time when you are settled, have some financial security, and know what you want. So what’s wrong with that? Well for starters I haven’t got my act together. The constant daily struggle between what I want to do and what I have to do, tugs at me. I hate watching the clock and wishing my days away. And what do I want, other than peace on earth, happy knees, and health and happiness for my boys? I have no clue! That’s the problem and that’s what keeps me clinging to being young, even though my fingers are slowly slipping off the jagged rock of youth. And it’s not the letting go that scares me the most. It’s the possible crash at the bottom and being alone to deal with it all that keeps me clinging to that rock. Letting go and moving on, single, strong and happy within myself, is a monster step. But maybe it’s time to put on my big girl, ok middle aged, panties and just jump. Maybe that’s what being middle aged means. Taking a leap, knowing that I have the maturity to deal with the outcome and making it work.
My definition of middle age used to be so simple. If you owned a recliner, listened to country music, watched NASCAR, and voted Republican, you were middle aged. Knowing that three of those things would absolutely never happen, I felt comfortable. Three years after announcing my definition to my sister when she turned fifty, I still like it, even when writing this in my recliner. I will never be middle aged by my very own definition. My body, however, is singing a different tune. Blake Shelton’s country version of “Footloose” may be popular with some, but Nine Inch Nails are banging out “Hurt” on my knees. My definition is no longer accurate and I have learned, not that simple. I can’t quite put my finger on why this is bothering me so much, but I think my problem is more mental than physical, which is why I’ve been struggling to write this post for two weeks. My body is older, but I’m not any wiser.
Middle aged is supposed to be the time when you are settled, have some financial security, and know what you want. So what’s wrong with that? Well for starters I haven’t got my act together. The constant daily struggle between what I want to do and what I have to do, tugs at me. I hate watching the clock and wishing my days away. And what do I want, other than peace on earth, happy knees, and health and happiness for my boys? I have no clue! That’s the problem and that’s what keeps me clinging to being young, even though my fingers are slowly slipping off the jagged rock of youth. And it’s not the letting go that scares me the most. It’s the possible crash at the bottom and being alone to deal with it all that keeps me clinging to that rock. Letting go and moving on, single, strong and happy within myself, is a monster step. But maybe it’s time to put on my big girl, ok middle aged, panties and just jump. Maybe that’s what being middle aged means. Taking a leap, knowing that I have the maturity to deal with the outcome and making it work.
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