Aug. 1, 1996
" My name is
Jody, and I am a middle-aged woman." These words make it sound like I belong in a twelve-step
program for over-the-hill adults. Aging is not the latest pathetic disease to control and conquer.
It's a badge to wear proudly, proof of survival and life itself.
I enjoy being in my forties. I'm no longer expected to conform to the tight rules of style set by those in their twenties, so being fat and frumpy just adds to my character. Telling dirty jokes and maintaining the mental state of a 15 year old just make me quirky and free-spirited (in another 20 years I'll be an eccentric). True, there are many highly pumped-up, svelte, drop-dead beautiful women in this world in their 40s and 50s, but I am not one of them, and neither, from what I can see, are the majority of my fellow female baby boomers. As much as I would like to be perfectly healthy and youthful looking, I am not consumed by that goal. Being middle-aged at least allows me some dignity: I am beginning to respect myself because I'm measuring myself with a different stick.
I have noticed that people seem to value my opinions more and turn to me for help. I'm considered one of the established members of my church (God forbid I should become venerable), and have actually had positions of leadership in recent years. I measure up pretty well intellectually and emotionally, and those are my criteria now for self-worth.
The middle ages don't
automatically make you wise, witty, and wonderful. Let's face it: young dumb bunnies mature into
half-witted hares. Shallow people remain two-dimensional. Middle age just allows many of us to
breathe a little more freely and be a little less inhibited because we no longer fear public
censorship.
For me, the Middle Ages have been my Renaissance.
