I think I raised some hackles by suggesting that women in their 50s might be old. But I propose that "old" can only be an insult in a culture that has lost its way.
Young women are valued for a few different reasons: they are viewed as more fertile, more pliant, more full of potential, and more attractive in a very specific way. Do we care about any of that stuff, my middle-aged lady friends? I suggest that we mostly don't care. Let us form a united and apathetic front about ALL that stuff (even the more-attractive-in-a-very-specific-way stuff)! Let's discuss.
Less fertile. This one has an evolutionary origin: like any animal, we're wired for attraction to probable propagators of the species. At almost-53, it is extremely unlikely that I will bear more children, but my life is many flavors of fruitful. I hope to have grandchildren sooner rather than later; I think I might make an awesome grandma. (Alex, sweetheart, are you reading this post? xoxo) But my ultimate value is not measured in the number of humans I can add to this world. I reject any suggestion that I should be ashamed or regretful about my plummeting fecundity.
Less pliant. I have opinions; I have earned them. I understand how the world works in a way I just did not when I was 22 years old. So yes, I am less pliant. I like it that way. Anyone who might have preferred the less experienced version of me is out of luck. I reject the idea that I was somehow better when I was easier to silence.
Less potential. I have fewer possibilities ahead of me now because I have been given so many good gifts: marriage, children, career. There's less potential, more actual. The omnipotentiality of youth is fleeting, and some days I miss it. But I also found it a little daunting at the time-- with so many options open to me, how could I be confident about choosing wisely? I remember feeling wistful when I read Ps. 119:45: I will walk freely in an open space. Many of the paths I considered when I was young are closed to me now, but the path before me right now is clear and I will walk it freely.
Less attractive. This is the tough one, right? This is the one that makes us think thoughts of hair dye or Botox or fillers or personal trainers or going keto or or or. And every person reading this post should OF COURSE feel free to do what works best for her. I only want to say that in every phase of my life I have reflected the image of God, and that is as certain today as it was when my forehead was unwrinkled. My aging face is telling a true story about who I am: a person with some wisdom and experience to share, a person whom time has made more trustworthy. Also: I do NOT miss getting catcalled. Bleh.
Even if it weren't impossible, I wouldn't opt to be young again. I have noticed that when I say, "Oh, she's young," the unspoken second half of the thought is generally "...and inexperienced, which is why she's doing the [dumb] thing I'm commenting on." If I talk about something that happened when I was young, I'm always emphasizing how much the world has changed since then. I was young a long time ago. I'm okay with that.
Old is the goal, because the alternative is dead. I am doing my best to steward my body and mind and soul in preparation for a healthy and happy old age, but I can't change what old age is: the age at which I will be old. I think the Proverbs 31 woman was probably about our age (the text doesn't say "she rises while it is still night because sometimes the hot flashes are Just Too Much," but a person can reasonably infer that, right?), and my favorite thing about her has always been that she laughs at the future.
I may never own a distaff, but I am going to do my best to adopt her joyous and open-hearted outlook on the years ahead.
Way back in my archives there is a poem I wrote when I turned 37. (Birthdays have always made me a little thoughtful, I guess.) It begins like this:
I will never be any younger than I am today.
Let me never be any less patient,
Any less wise, any less kind.
Age is inexorable; growth is not.
Let me grow.
That's how it goes, isn't it? You grow, and you grow, and you grow, and you turn around and realize you've grown-- old. And what if-- (you should of course label yourself in the way that seems sensible to you but) WHAT IF-- we as a culture saw that process not as something to fight or flee or fear, but as something profoundly good and right? What then?
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