My mortal beloved.
The life expectancy for American women is just a fraction less than 80 years, twice what it was 100 years ago and 5 years higher than contemporary American men. Assuming I achieve that overripe old age, I'll have enjoyed 65 years of sex, 62 years of voting and 59 years of (legal) drinking. Not to mention 56 years of post-bac career achievements that I can only hope will merit the many nights of burnt dorm-lobby popcorn, exam-night fire alarms and ill-advised hookups between various campus affiliates. Should we even discuss my Masters degree?
I'm 36 now, technically middle-aged if we consider the fact that I've smoked since I was 13 and enjoy the odd glass of wine or three several nights a week. And so the mortality dance begins, with the ferocious pluck of a grey hair there and the furious examination of a new mole there. I don't feel any different than I did at 26--surprisingly (or perhaps not, to the aged among you), I don't think of myself or my life as having miraculously aged 10 years in the blink of an eye.
Truth be told, it's been more than a blink. In the last ten years I've managed to buy a house, amicably settle a divorce, work my way through two other serious relationships, advance my career both laterally and longitudinally, gain 30 pounds and find a whole host of new reasons to love and loathe myself in startling degrees. Astrology says that we reinvent ourselves every 7 years; I've always been an apt pupil.
But what does it all mean? Do I push through the mid-life crisis, having acknowledged my positions squarely in its midst? What does that mean for a woman? Maybe I'll write the new book on The New Cougar and keep a tool and chisel at the base of my headboard. Or adopt seven babies from six continents and subscribe to "People" magazine. Perhaps I'll sell everything I own and sail the Mediterranean with a flower in my hair and a knife in my teeth.
Probably, though, I'll light a cigarette to go with this glass of Chardonnay, give my pets a scratch, and see what happens next. I've got 36 more years to enjoy it, right?
The life expectancy for American women is just a fraction less than 80 years, twice what it was 100 years ago and 5 years higher than contemporary American men. Assuming I achieve that overripe old age, I'll have enjoyed 65 years of sex, 62 years of voting and 59 years of (legal) drinking. Not to mention 56 years of post-bac career achievements that I can only hope will merit the many nights of burnt dorm-lobby popcorn, exam-night fire alarms and ill-advised hookups between various campus affiliates. Should we even discuss my Masters degree?
I'm 36 now, technically middle-aged if we consider the fact that I've smoked since I was 13 and enjoy the odd glass of wine or three several nights a week. And so the mortality dance begins, with the ferocious pluck of a grey hair there and the furious examination of a new mole there. I don't feel any different than I did at 26--surprisingly (or perhaps not, to the aged among you), I don't think of myself or my life as having miraculously aged 10 years in the blink of an eye.
Truth be told, it's been more than a blink. In the last ten years I've managed to buy a house, amicably settle a divorce, work my way through two other serious relationships, advance my career both laterally and longitudinally, gain 30 pounds and find a whole host of new reasons to love and loathe myself in startling degrees. Astrology says that we reinvent ourselves every 7 years; I've always been an apt pupil.
But what does it all mean? Do I push through the mid-life crisis, having acknowledged my positions squarely in its midst? What does that mean for a woman? Maybe I'll write the new book on The New Cougar and keep a tool and chisel at the base of my headboard. Or adopt seven babies from six continents and subscribe to "People" magazine. Perhaps I'll sell everything I own and sail the Mediterranean with a flower in my hair and a knife in my teeth.
Probably, though, I'll light a cigarette to go with this glass of Chardonnay, give my pets a scratch, and see what happens next. I've got 36 more years to enjoy it, right?
