Stuck in the Middle

In the "olden days" as we used to say when I was a kid, I would be far beyond the middle of my life. Forty or even twenty years ago, not that many people lived into their 90s. So, at 51, my expiration date would be fast approaching. At best I might have 25 or 30 years left. And I think about that all the time now, as I struggle with the changes that menopause throws me, much as my children both struggle with puberty. I think: if Annie doesn't get married until she's 30, like I did, and she doesn't have a baby until she's 35, then I will be a grandmother at 73.

That's not so old, right? I come from hearty German stock on both sides. My paternal grandparents died within a year of one another, my grandmother still so in love with my grandfather that she literally wasted away from grief after he was felled by heart disease; they were both in their early 90s. And my mother's mother outlived my mom who died at 71 from emphysema brought about by years and years of smoking. Grandmother died at 96, sharp, as they say, as a tack, at the end. So, by all rights if I'm a grandma at 73, I might get to see that grandchild graduate from high school at least, if not college.

If I'm going to live into my 90s, then 51 is more than halfway through, but not by much. And most of the time I don't feel "middle aged." I work and work out and take care of my family, and laugh with my husband, and yeah, I forget why I went to the garage and come back up with Kleenex when I meant to get a can of nuts, but it doesn't matter much. It's when I look in the mirror at this nice older lady with boobs down to their and a big, puffy tummy despite my daily sweat that I realize that yes, I am too middle aged, maybe even pushing the edge of old, chronologically at least, and you know what? Since I don't consider plastic surgery an option, and I'm too much of a pleasure hog to forgo wine and brownies forever, there's not a whole hell of a lot I can do. So, I'm working on acceptance. I think it's a valid lesson for anyone to learn. I tell my kids that when they complain about their hair or their inability to do a headstand or why they aren't taller. We are who we are, and we all have to love ourselves, at least some of the time.