It used to be that when I thought of a “mid-life crisis” I pictured unattractive balding men who bought Ferraris and left their wives for women half their age.
It never occurred to me that I would ever BE middle aged or have any type of crisis about getting old.
Not until recently, that is.
Over the past few weeks a series of unfortunate events has occurred that has made me feel a bit differently.
The first was at church. I was thinking about that old question of whether or not I should have one more baby, when I happened to glance to my left and see three mothers of new babies sitting together. I started thinking about how youthful they looked—unlike me, they still had smooth skin, rosy cheeks and cheerful dispositions.
Then I started thinking about how young they actually were. This led me to the realization that I was approximately twenty years older than these young mothers. TWENTY YEARS. I was very likely the same age as some of their mothers. I immediately reprimanded myself for even thinking about having another baby and began to worry about how old I would already be when my grandchildren were born.
The second incident occurred one day as I was standing in my kitchen washing dishes. I was thinking about my new responsibility at church, which—as I mentioned in a previous post—is teaching the adult Sunday School class, the Gospel Doctrine class.
I started to think about what a “grown-up” calling this was, then realized that my previous responsibility—that of being in the presidency of our women’s organization, the Relief Society—was also one that is often filled by “older people.” It was then that it hit me: I AM one of the older people. It was a bit of an uncomfortable thought, I have to say.
The third incident—and final one that I will discuss—happened when I was looking at some pictures my aunt had posted on facebook. They showed her granddaughter, who was graduating from high school, wearing her prom dress and posing with her friends, boyfriend, parents, etc.
As I looked at the pictures I could not get over how young and beautiful--and different from me--my 17- or 18-year-old cousin-once-removed looked. I started to realize that I could never look that young again, or be that young—or anywhere near it. And this led to thoughts of how I’d spent my youth wanting to be older, and wondering why youth is wasted on the young, and other old-person thoughts like that.
Now that I know I am middle-aged, everything is different. I walk a little slower, get more headaches, and find that life has lost a bit of its luster (although some of that is just because I’m not wearing my glasses, I’m sure).
Part of me wonders if I should just head to the Ferrari dealership and be done with it. (No need to worry about younger men, though. . . . )
On the other hand, I’m just getting comfortable with the Caravan. Maybe—with time—I will get comfortable with “middle age.”
Am I really middle-aged?
2 comments:
No you're not middle-aged. You are as young as you think you are, not as old as people say that you are! Your Dad and I are middle-aged, but I guess that means that we will be living until 130yrs and 126yrs respectively!
I think I'm only going to live to 68 because I've hit my mid-life crisis already!! It's no fun realizing that you're not young anymore. Although, you still look much younger than you are!!!!
Post a Comment