I've Come to the Middle
And I'm not sure I'm ready
I rejoiced when my monthlies stopped, and the possibility that another human being could make its way through me and out into this chaotic world ended.
And for a while, the nighttime hot flashes didn’t seem as bad as my sisters lamented over wine and cheese.
But then the belly emerged, and it was as if I was five months pregnant without the shower of gifts, and trust me, no one wanted to rub it.
The whiskers began to explode from my chin faster than my trusty tweezers could find and pluck them. I even discovered a rather long black hair that had found a warm, often moist hiding place between my sagging breasts to incubate from a tiny prickle into a very long and ever-persistent root, wanting to take hold of my youth.
And when I plucked it from its safe space, I felt my past life, the beauty I once held, the tautness of my skin, the lift in my eyes, and the buoyancy of my breasts leave my body as if this tiny root held it all into place.
I have jowls now where once my jutting chin held the confidence of a young woman with a mission. I have layers to my neck where it once held my head high and proud.
And my eyes, once bright with ideas and ambition, now hold the truth about what a life lived delivers.
I find myself out in the world, often looking at women my age and contemplating their skincare routine, admonishing my own lack of it as a young woman. My warning to my daughter is repeated daily, “Sunscreen and moisturizer!” as she leaves the house. And, as much as I try now, spending a small fortune on cremes and tools to undo what’s already been done, I know the wrinkles and creases will have to become my friends because they aren’t going anywhere, and daily new ones arrive.
The other day, I went to one of my favorite spots to write and dream. It was one of the first warm days in a while, and I wanted to bask in the sunlight and pretend I was living in the Tuscan countryside, living my Eat, Pray, Love moment.
A man approached me. He looked old and tired. He was kind and interested in this woman who sat alone with her computer, typing away as if her life depended on it. If I were 20 years younger, I would have shivered at his advance.
This me, the older and wiser me, held a protective stance as if his invasion of my space was an act of war. I had long given up on a man finding me beautiful; quite frankly, I have given up on men altogether. Not that I want to; one last love before I go would be a magnificent desert for this life. True love being the one thing that has alluded me so far.
I’m single and alone in this world. I’m a mother of teens, not yet ready to fly the coop, so this idea that I am supposed to embody the crone right now confuses me.
In the mirror, I see my mother’s face. Yet I’m not ready to be her.
She died angry and bitter.
Alone.
She refused to adapt to the world changing around her and mourned a past that didn’t honor her.
I don’t want it to end like that. Yet I feel her pain from the regrets she carried.
I still have dreams to fulfill, and entering the quiet doesn’t feel right.
Yet.
I know that to be in the middle doesn’t mean it’s over…
And yet, I’m supposed to be somewhere I am not.
Is there still time? To be what I dreamed I could be?
My body hurts more; I move slower to the finish line.
Should I be happy with what I’ve done and leave the rest for another lifetime? Or should I continue to reach for the stars I dreamt of in my childhood bed?
Does life ever end, or do we die continuing to live?
I don’t want to slip away quietly.
I want it to end with a bang…like it started.
