the middle ages

A dear friend of mine – let’s call her Kate – recently pointed out that we are in our middle ages.

“Get out of here,” I texted. “I am NOT middle-aged.”

“Um, how long do you intend to live?” she asked.

“Barring random accident, I’ve got a good shot at 90.” After all, my grandmother is in her late 90s and her mother lived to be 101.

“And half of 90 is…?”

I did some quick math in my head. Dammit.

How can 45 be the middle ages? For that matter, I don’t even feel 45. Or at least I didn’t until over the weekend, when I went to the wedding of another dear friend, let’s call her Laura. While a majority of the guests were (like Laura and her groom) in their early 30s, it didn’t occur to me how much older I am until I sat down to dinner.

“Are you a friend of the bride’s mother?” the woman next to me asked. She clearly was a guest of the same generation of the mother of the bride. Obviously she should have recognized I am not.

Or maybe I am delusional.

My goal has always been to age gracefully. That means instead of planning on surgical interventions or injections, I spend less time in the sun and more money on skincare. I do color my hair and get an LED facial every three-to-four months, but that’s about as extreme as I plan to get. I have firm rule against wearing mom jeans, but also nothing screaming teenybopper graces my closet. I drink at least ten glasses of water a day. I work out. Come on! I am not old enough to be a friend of the mother of bride!

The lady doth protest too much, methinks.

Sigh. It is what it is. I will concede to being in my middle ages, but only because it’s a better than old age or… the other option. With age comes experience and with experience comes wisdom.

And maybe a few wrinkles.

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