My sister K and I were hanging out
the other day and out of the blue she says, “I don't know who I am
anymore. I don't fit in anywhere. I'm not young, but I'm not old
either. So who the hell am I?”
My first thought was, “Is
menopause bitch slapping her too?” But the more we talked, the more
I understood her quandary had nothing to do with menopause and
realized I felt exactly the same: middle age is no (wo)man's land.
Halfway between birth and death (we hope), being in our forties and
fifties is confusing. And frustrating. We literally are not young
anymore, nor are we old (except we seem like it to those that are
young).
When we were young, things were
much simpler. Being young meant having big fun and little
responsibility, like hanging out with friends at the drive-in movie
after working part time slinging burgers at the Tastee-Freez,
forgetting your worries by topping off a Big Gulp with Everclear or
taking a hit off a passed-around joint (but don't mix the two unless
you want to end up buzzed out of your gourd in the backseat of your
date's car, take my word on this!). It meant cruising in the nearest
big town to check out cute boys and blast your newest cassette tape.
With gas at .79 cents per gallon back then,
driving up and down Kearney Street (our preferred cruising spot) was
cheap entertainment.
We young'uns wore bell bottom Levis
and feathered hair, drove Pintos or Vegas or VW Bugs, parked on
country roads to make out with our sweeties, then snuck in past
curfew with hickeys we passed off as curling iron burns.
We knew we weren't “old”
because old folks had bursitis and mortgages, smoked pipes and cigars
and drank instant coffee, and went to church socials or PTA meetings
for “fun.” Oldsters wore polyester pants, knee-high hose that
bagged at the ankles, and spongy-soled shoes; got perms or a weekly
wash-and-set; drove tank-like Buicks and Plymouths; and the closest
they got to making out was a goodnight peck on the cheek. Those old
people were in their forties or beyond but they seemed
ancient. It was simple then – when you got to a certain age, you
dressed and acted “your age.”
But no more. If you could meet my
Sister K, headed toward the far side of 40 herself, you would see she
is the antithesis of old: dark chocolate hair swinging in a
CHI-sleeked “Rachel” do, body-hugging shirts and sequin-pocketed
jeans showing off her curvaceousness, a mishmash of Christian and
biker chick tattoos decorating her arms and legs. She rode a Harley
until it finally went kaput and says “wicked cool” about
everything. No way could she be described as old.
By outward appearance, I'm not as
wicked cool as she but I'm still wearing low-rider jeans without
sporting a belly-flopping hangover or plumber's crack. My signature
look funky cap toe sneakers and peace sign earrings give me a
youthful flair. And the only polyester pants that have ever
been on these thighs were part of my college job Kentucky Fried
Chicken uniform. Those pants were mandatory, and I hate, hate, hated
them.
Okay, so our look is still in the
young(ish) realm. Good. What about our actions?
Sister K has teenage boys, which
brings with it the requisite mommy baggage, but that's not all she's
about. Besides making a living driving a school bus like an expert
truck rodeoer – and I'll bet she is the sexiest bus driver those
adolescent boys ever had and fodder for many fantasies – she is a
faux painting diva, wine blend connoisseur, disco dancer
extraordinaire, and super seamstress. She creates and wears these
diaphanous ponchos, blinged out with sparkles and feathery trim, that
can turn the most blah outfit into a party. She also saved my
favorite Gap jeans from ending up in the trash by adding zazzy flame
patches to the threadbare knees. I get more compliments on those
ancient jeans than anything else in my closet. The woman can do it
all, and she does. The Energizer Bunny on steroids couldn't keep up
with her. She's definitely not living the oldster life.
Me? I'm not so talented or
creative, but I try. I try everything to try and find that one thing
that's going to be my thing. Here's the “I Tried” short list:
guitar, harmonica and keyboards (I swear I've got the music in me, I
just can't make it come out); working as a massage therapist (a real
one, not a quasi-hooker); being a beach babe (loved it but couldn't
afford it forever); and skateboarding. I still have my pin-tail
longboard Pinkie and she's gorgeous, with hot pink wheels and her
underside decorated with groovy stickers like “I'm not perfect, but
parts of me are incredible.” I mostly look at her these days,
spending my spare time writing instead of boarding. But I could
ride her if I got the urge. And I don't spend all day discussing my
aches and pains and surgeries, planning my next meal at the
senior-price buffet, or knitting gift afghans that will be hidden in
a closet until I come for a visit.
So we don't look old, at least
fashion-wise. Wrinkle-wise? Now that's a whole different subject (see my earlier "Get Off My Face" blog). And we don't act old. Then why the hell can't
we figure out who the hell we are?
As I pondered this, I remembered my
grandma saying to me, “Honey, I don't feel old. My body may be
falling apart and I may look old, but I don't feel it, not inside
anyway.” Bazinga! Grandma was one wise woman. I realized I
don't feel old, at least not on the inside. My body sure feels 49
Part Two, some days more like 69 Part Two, but my inside feels 24
tops.
Sister K had her own bazinga moment
when I asked her how old she felt: “That's it! My body may feel
like I'm in my late thirties, but my spirit is still 21. I think like
a kid, that's why I'm more comfortable around kids than people my own
age. I've got the wisdom of an older person with a young spirit.”
That's true for me as well. While I
don't do little kids – never had any, never wanted any, and no, I
don't babysit no matter how cute the little devil is – I feel
simpatico hanging with 20-somethings way more than oldsters. I try
not to be an old-age bigot, but I have a phobia about visiting senior
habitats ever since my 45th birthday. My parents, bless
their well-meaning hearts, got sick of me bitching about getting
older and surprised me with a birthday lunch at the Senior Center.
The Senior Center! The place where everyone had blue hair or no hair,
the hot topic around the table was who had what removed, and the
drill sergeant center director spent ten minutes lecturing the
lunchers on the proper protocol for the new self-serve salad bar as
if they'd never hit the senior buffets before. Needless to say, I
don't mention aging around my folks anymore. Or let them take me out
for my birthday. And I prefer not to hang out with an older crowd if
I can help it.
Besides me and Sister K, others
weighed in on the “how old do you feel outside versus inside”
question and it seems almost universal that the disparity between
body age and spirit age keeps our minds totally confused. Most
reported feeling younger in spirit than body, and the older the
person, the wider the gap between the two.
Some examples:
Body feels Spirit
feels Age
Roberta 60ish 23/24 50s
Mikey 50 30 50s
Deb 45 23 50s
Eli 35 20 20s
(Actual ages are approximate – I'm
not out to out anyone's age.)
I wanted to better understand the
disparity and the reason behind it, so I asked my sweetie DMan for
his opinion. He said, “I guess I feel under 40 all over. If I tried
to do things I did when I was 30, I'd probably feel older.” And
he's older than I am. I do love him to death, but sometimes I just
want to wring his neck to choke off his Pollyanna attitude that makes
me feel like his “old” lady. Plus his answer didn't help my understanding one bit.
Then
I tried asking Mama and Daddy to tell me their body versus spirit
ages to use for something I was writing. Big mistake. I got righteous
soliloquies as if they were having their fifteen minutes of fame on
“Oprah.” In a nutshell, Mama's version was “wake up every day
with a sunny outlook and you'll feel your best no matter what age you
are,” and Daddy spouted off on “I've worked hard all my life and
I damn well deserve to feel how old I feel.” Spoken with good
intentions on their part, I'm sure, but no help at all.
Looks like I'm on my own to explain
the “who am I” disconnect. Could it be that our bodies keep on
aging but our spirits hold at some prime time when we were at our
peak? That's how my memory seems to work anyway. It must have peaked
in the 1970s because I can sing every blame word of the “Green
Acres” theme song but can't remember when I last changed my sheets.
(See, that song is playing in my head right now – “Green Acres is
the place to be, farm living is the life for me . . . .” The
sheets? I don't have a clue how long they've been on the bed. Guess
it's time for the sniff test.)
If
the spirit peak supposition is true, maybe what we see as middle-age
crazy isn't crazy at all. That paunchy balding man with newly
implanted hair plugs is only acting his spirit age, and his spirit
paused as a testosterone-fueled teenager with the hots for
well-endowed Corvettes and 22-year old blondes. And maybe a lot of
oldsters diagnosed with senility are perfectly fine. Their spirits
just choose to hang out at the age when having a teddy bear as their
lunch companion and calling everyone “Mama” feels right. Life was
much simpler with a cuddly friend and Mama around all the time,
wasn't it?
Or could it be that the way we feel
inside reflects our true soul age, in cosmic terms? What if there is
no arrested spirit development involved and that no matter how old we
get to be or how many times our soul gets to hang out in bodily form
(if you believe in that sort of thing, which I do – Sorry, Mama,
for disappointing you), we'll forever stay at our unique and perfect
soul age?
That
sounds right to me, and my uncle Jesse is a prime example of why.
He's on the express train to turning 87 and lives in a nursing home
due to Parkinson's and the residual effects of several mild strokes,
but his soul is forever youthful. Those honey brown eyes of his exude
orneriness. He may not be able to get a forkful of peas to his mouth
without spilling half, but he is still the biggest flirt I've ever
known. And the best. He's got every female in the facility wrapped
around his little finger and loving it. He wise cracks. He plays
practical jokes. His soul isn't a day over 25. Never has been. Never
will be.
Now
it makes sense why most folks I talked to feel
they are in their twenties or thirties no matter what their birth
date says. If all souls were kid souls, the world would be one giant
messy playground and nothing would get accomplished. If oldster souls
dominated, the world would creak to a cantankerous halt on
oh-my-aching-whatever woes and remember-when-life-was-better
bitchfests. At least our 20-something souls still have hope enough to
believe we can make the world better, the energy to keep plugging
away until we do, and the smarts to have some fun along the way.
So,
who the hell am I? I'm a 24-year old soul making the best of life in
a 49 Part Two-year old body. Let's see, what was my life like at 24?
I was a nearly-single gal, after the breakup of my first marriage,
with my very own place and a decent paying job. When I wasn't working
hard or sleeping soundly, I was boogieing with my sisters every
chance I got, wearing jean mini skirts and fringey short boots,
drinking cheap beer by the pitcher, and partying with good friends
hearty and often.
Being 24 forever? I can live with
that.
(Me and Sister K rocking our young souls!)
