Forty Something & Not Dead Yet

Remember the show called “Thirty-Something?” I think I was twenty-something when it was on. They were all a bunch of whiny babies. I just wanted to tell them to suck it up and get on with their lives instead of always worrying about what they didn’t have and thinking life was passing them by because they had responsibilities and couldn’t go bungee jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge or party all night with their unattached friends.
Then there was, “Friends,” a show about singles nearing thirty that acted infantile well past their matured-by expiration date, whining about not being able to find the perfect mate no matter how many they tried out for a night or two. What a shame.
I can say with quite a bit of assurance that a show will never be written about forty-something friends. Those living in their forties really can have a lot to whine about and that presents way too much reality, even for a generation of reality-driven entertainment gawkers. Forty means: More aches and pains. Acne at the same time as Arthritis. Grown children moving back home after you thought you were rid of them. The battle of the bulge. A Mid-life crisis begetting season tickets to the Roller Derby or joining a Harley Davidson gang. Loss of hair, spontaneity, short-term memory, etc…
I turned forty with a bit of trepidation, as though I could turn back time and cling to the edge of reason. Forty seemed ancient twenty years ago, but now I’ve talked myself into believing it’s still quite young. After all, I plan to live to one hundred twenty, and with new advances in plastic surgery and anti-aging techniques I shouldn’t become fodder for “Tales From The Crypt” until I’m at least one hundred ten.
Forty-five snuck up on me and now I’m just a breath away from the big 5-O. But I don’t plan to disappear from society like an aging starlet from the thirties. I have a life to live and even if I don’t have buns of steel I believe it’s still worth living.
Fifty used to be the jumping off point. Women hit this number and decided fashion and looking their best were for the “younger” generation. They quit dying their hair, started wearing elastic waistbands and covered their drooping bosoms with tent-like blouses embroidered with flowers or spreading ivy, then sat down on plastic-protected sofas to knit until they died.
Luckily things have changed a bit since then. It may have something to do with Hollywood. They get a lot of bad press for turning girls anorexic, glamorizing violence and promiscuous sex, and calling Republican Presidents bad names, but what about the good they do? Hollywood should also be given credit for encouraging women to look their best in spite of their age. (Okay, Meg Ryan’s overly plump lips are slightly scary, but I’m sure they will deflate in time and look quite normal.) Perhaps they go overboard with Botox and collagen, smoothing the lines and filling the cracks like a professional cement finisher, but at least they give us hope that there is life after forty. (Maybe just a bit of hope: mother of the bride or some eccentric aunt – but hope nonetheless)
Forty no longer seems noteworthy. Fifty is looking younger all the time. From here in the middle I can say with confidence that aging doesn’t have to hurt all the time. Some days it’s just a dull ache. So smooth on your spackling, pull on your spandex, and get out there and live the years God has provided you with purpose and ingenuity. After all, you’re not dead yet.
(For the two or three fans who may have read this when I posted it on my yahoo blog a couple years back: sorry for repeating myself, but it is a sign of aging)

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