The other day while wrapping up a client meeting, the chatter among the group turned to the topic of drinking and “going out.”  My client, who is close to my age, was lamenting about how she’s become a “light-weight.”  She explained how she can no longer really enjoy a cocktail the way she once did.  I chimed in and admitted that when I turned 45 I noticed a huge difference in the way my body processed and tolerated alcohol.  That open admission of my age range seemed to create a pause in the room. It was nothing big…nothing that was discussed…but I felt it. The reactive silence was uncomfortable for at least a few seconds. And I’ve been thinking about it ever since.

Was that really a moment of awkwardness caused by me admitting my age to a room full of women? Or did I imagine it?

I suppose women have been conditioned to hide their age. As we get older, we’re afraid that we’ll be judged as being “outdated,” “unrelatable ,” or just plain “old.”

About a year ago, I admitted my age (as if it were some act of selfless bravery) to a coworker. He immediately lashed out, “You should never admit your age. Keep them guessing, honey.”

Really?

First of all, I doubt I’m fooling anyone. And second of all, I’ve grown intolerant of lies and bullshit. That’s another benefit of growing older and experiencing shit. You learn to tolerate less of it.

Sure, I can’t have more than two glasses of wine without forgetting everything…like…everything. I also seem to gain weight by simply looking at a cookie.  No kidding.  While grocery shopping the other day, a button popped off my jeans when I passed by the doughnut case.

 

Or maybe that was just my imagination.

But is my age something I should be ashamed of? I’ll admit it kind of feels that way at times.  And it’s ridiculous! Gaining weight post-45 doesn’t make me unique. Nor does feeling tired and cranky and getting seriously buzzed after two glasses of wine. It’s what happens when you cross over the half way point in your life. And we all will, if lucky enough, arrive at this very same place at some point.  So, if this is all just a natural part of life, why do we have such a hard time embracing the number? As Jerry Seinfeld would say, “what iiiiiiiIIssss the deal?”

 

Life is hard enough focusing on the requirements: caring for your child, doing your job, paying the bills, planning for (stressing about) retirement, and trying desperately to work out and stay healthy. Carrying around extra energy for things like “fooling people into thinking I’m younger” is just not in the cards. And, why should I have to keep up that façade anyway? Why were we brought up to believe that part of being a woman includes lying about your age?  Why is it not OK to admit my age?

I’m sure men feel the same daily pressures we do about their age and perceptions surrounding it. You know, it’s not like they can let their hair grow naturally grey and be considered sexy. Oh…wait. Uh….well, it’s not like they can earn more money or climb the corporate ladder with all that grey hair showing….uh…er…

Grrr….

I’m over it! I’m over trying to hide my age. I am OVER IT!

(Disclaimer: the author will most likely continue to spend a small fortune maintaining the appearance of naturally chestnut brown locks. But this in no way makes her a hypocrite. Nope. Not at all.) 

Now, being over this whole “fooling people about my age” thing doesn’t mean I’m going to stop trying to be fit, or that I won’t put effort into looking healthy and being somewhat stylish.  I won’t pretend that I can rock the salt and pepper look and be taken seriously in my profession. But what I will stop doing is giving any more fucks about the number attached to my years on this earth.

When it comes to my age, I have zero fucks to give!

ZERO. FUCKS.

Here’s how I arrived at this place of apathy….uh…I mean acceptance.

I think, in part, because I’m unmarried with a daughter, I tend to ask myself a lot of unanswerable questions, like:  Will I have enough money for retirement? Will I be alone for the rest of my life? What happens if I get sick?  Will I ever write that book? Will I always have a muffin top? Will I ever get the chance to touch Dwayne Johnson’s pectoral muscles.

DON’T JUDGE ME!

I’m paddling all alone in this canoe and it’s a little terrifying, I have to be honest. Sometimes I find myself thinking about some pretty dark shit… like, how long would I lie unconscious before someone would miss me? Let’s say Abby is at her Dad’s house for the weekend and I slip and fall in the shower Friday night and crack my head wide open. Most likely I’d go the whole weekend without anyone realizing I was lying ass out in my  tub. Sadly, my daughter would probably have the unfortunate fate of finding me…DAYS later.

I’m a chipper little bugger, aren’t I?

But seriously folks, I mostly laugh that stuff off. I mean, it’s not like there’s much I can do about any of it. How’s that saying go? “Control what you can, and drink away the rest?”  No…that’s not it. It’ll come to me…

Honestly, I do really believe…deep down…that I’ll be OK. I feel in control. I know I’m doing the best I can. And that will just have to be enough.

So, I’m trying to see opportunity in the wide-open space that’s in front of me, instead of focusing on what it might not contain. The 50’s could literally be the greatest years of my life.

I said 50’s….as in 5-0.  How’s that for a number?

Abby will be off conquering college. So the days and nights will be mine…all mine to spend however selfishly I’d like.  Maybe I’ll be alone…maybe I won’t be. Maybe I’ll be living someplace new…or maybe not. Maybe I’ll be doing exactly what I’m doing today…or maybe my life will look completely different from anything I can possibly imagine right now.

The truth is, for the very first time in my adult life I see a great big huge clean canvas just waiting to be filled. With age comes wisdom, freedom and so much more.  For starters, I’m learning to let go of those fears that used to make me insufferable: A fear of growing old and not accomplishing any of my goals, A fear of being alone, a fear of not being accepted, a fear of falling after taking a giant leap, a fear of being forever judged and ridiculed for my bad choices.

But at this (unspeakable) age, I’m letting go of much of that at a surprising pace. There’s speed to my evolution now. I’m not sprinting by any means. But there is a steady pace to my progress.  While the scale might tell a different story, I’m actually lighter…a lot lighter than I’ve ever been in my adult life. Oh, and I’m much happier too.

So, while middle-age may come with some unpleasantness, like forgetfulness, and a need to do burpees and planks daily, it does come with a boat load of perks too, like perspective, wisdom, experience…and discounts at coffee shops (thank you AARP card, which I don’t yet have, so simmer down!!).

Maybe you’ll join me on my “age ain’t no thing crusade.”  Come on, ladies. Let’s forget the number! Oh, and in case you’re wondering, I’ll be 49 in six weeks. Not that I give a…well, you know.