Sixty is a Myth

What the hell happened to middle-aged?

I had a very rude awakening the other day when I referred to myself as middle-aged. The math didn’t work.

It is a bit crazy when you think about it. I guess the forties are middle-aged, but does anyone actually feel that way? I didn’t. I am pretty sure that in my forties I still wasn’t carrying a purse or wearing lipstick as that felt too old lady-ish for me. (PS – I still can only wear lip gloss.)

I was figuring life out in my forties. I wasn’t middle-aged then because I thought I was young. And now I can’t be middle-aged because the math won’t allow it. This seems terribly unfair.

So what am I now?

The other day, I was getting my nails done and was in conversation with my nail person. I was relating something and said, “I know I am old, but …”.

And then I paused a second.

Guess what happened?

Nothing.

I thought her immediate reaction would be … you are not old!! But it wasn’t. And this is someone who has a vested interest in making me happy.

My husband has this theory that everyone is who they were at eight years old.

I love eight-year-old Tunie. I was innocent, kind, had no fear and no worries. I was loved and I loved back – so strongly. I paid no attention to societal pressures and had no need to fit in.

Somewhere over the last fifty plus years, eight year old Tunie got harder to find. I have fears and worries – it would be impossible at this age and in these times not to. Through the years, I always felt the love of my family, but perhaps not always outside of that. And I became more guarded giving my love.

The most amazing realization of my sixtieth year?

I think I am back to eight-year-old Tunie.

There is a stability that comes with this level of experience in life. I now know better how to recognize love from others and how to give it. I can be vulnerable again. I know I might get hurt, but I am no longer so afraid of it. I understand how to compartmentalize worries and fears and not let them dominate my life.

I don’t want to be eight again. I don’t want to give back everything I have learned in the last fifty years. I just want to keep the parts of eight-year-old Tunie that got buried along the way. The girl who loved without wondering if it would be returned. Who didn’t care what others thought of her. Who wasn’t afraid of much.

Call it old age.

Call it whatever you want.

For me, it’s been about finding my way back to who I was before the world had so much to say about who I should be. And it feels vibrant, young and pretty damn amazing.