Some of you know I turned 44 three days ago. I ate so much cake! And this fact, that I got really excited because I was presented with a beautiful cake, coupled with this new article in the Huffington Post about what words I’m not supposed to be saying if I am over age 30, has me all stressed out about how I’m not a grownup. Totes.
I’m always going to be the old lady yelling about agesim and how we should all be able to do whatever we want and wear whatever we want and enjoy whatever we want, no matter how old we are. I usually don’t give a fuck (I don’t think I’m allowed to say that at my age, it’s not very becoming of a woman my age) about what headlines or society or the media tells me I can and can’t do, but then I also keep thinking that at some point I should probably.. mature a little. I’m mature, I take care of business, I have a career, and a mortgage, and I make dinner and check homework and iron and pay my electric bill and try to sleep at least six hours a night. But then again I also got really excited about the Beyonce visual album and I wear a lot of glitter nail polish.
I think in many ways our moms had it easy, because back in the day when they reached a certain age they were allowed to be that certain age. Now none of us can find our bliss in casserole preperation whilst donning pastel tracksuits because of Oprah. I mean, did you see the January cover of O mag? Oprah is tuning 60 and she looks maybe 35. I’m constantly torn between idolization and anger as I want her to just go ahead and age all ready so the rest of us feel like we can too.
I knew how to be 43. 43 was easy. I was just me but with less concern over whether I should be applying a moisturizer to my neck nightly. Now at age 44 I know there are things I should be doing but I have no idea what they are. Do I start taking multivitamins? Learn how to play Majohong instead of getting really excited about the Xbox One? Buy more earth tones? Invest in some Hermés scarves?
I don’t know how to be 44 because now one ever talks about being 44.
I work in a field dominated by people young enough to be my daughter. I like a lot of these people, and find a lot in common with them, but then one of them will mention something about being in a club at midnight or ask me what it’s like to have kids and I remember that my eldest is not so much younger than them. And when I talk about my age, I find so few women in my field who are the same age or who will admit to being the same age. It’s like the majority of these women, when they hit the over 35 mark simply stop mentioning it, because they are afraid it will make them seem.. irrelevant. Or old.
I’m the only 44 year old on earth.
I never really felt my age or cared about my age or worried about my age until now. And it’s not even like I’m worried about it, other than the fact I’m really technically middle age and that I’m closer to death than birth, and sometimes when I wake up my hands ache, but it sure would be nice if I understood a little bit more about how to be this age. I don’t know what 44 should look like because everyone in the world is trying to do everything not to look 44.
Maybe I’ll buy some neck cream. Or just play the Xbox One.
It should be noted that beloved Mommyish reader AmazingE also has the same birthday as me. WOOHOO! Happy Birthday girl!
(Image: getty images)