Guest Post by Dina Honour
Much like gaining weight, middle age seems to have snuck up on me. Sure, somewhere in the back of my mind I knew all those nights spent in front of the television with bowls of salty snacks would eventually come between me and the button of my jeans (sorry, Brooke, there is something between me and my Calvinsβ¦.itβs called a muffin top). I knew it the same way I knew all those birthday candles would eventually add up. But it is slow and nefarious, this getting older business. Sometimes it catches you by surprise.
All those small steps donβt seem so bad. A little wobble here, a little paunch there. A chin hair here, an enlarging of your Kindle font there. But then one day you realize itβs not a question of getting your jeans buttoned or evenΒ getting them past your knees but more not remembering when you just gave up and bought a bigger size.Β Or like when you find yourself sitting in the front seat of the car merrily singing along to Margaritaville.
Waitβ¦what??
Iβve never been a parrot head or whatever bird Jimmy Buffett fans are named after. To me Margaritaville has always embodied the kind of generic, store brand complacency I ran awayΒ from as a youth. Singing about wasting away and claiming thereβs a woman to blame? It has always been the epitome of older than your years middle age music to me. So when I found myself enthusiastically singing along about lost shakers of salt with my husband on a road trip recently, it was the mental equivalent of trying to get my jeans up over my squishy thighs and realizing they werenβt going anywhere.
But I knowβ¦.itβs my own damn fault.
Oldies stations that play 80s music, soft rock which includes the metal bands of your youth, the length of time itΒ takes to scroll down to 197X. Ticking a different demographic bracket. Being okay with a little squish, a little soft around the middleβliterally and figuratively. Theyβre all signs of life in the middle ages. But there are more. Oh so many more.
I amble down the aisles, meander around the malls and the styles that fill the racks and stock the shelves? Iβve owned those styles already in some other decade. Iβve owned them and donated them to the Salvation Army. Itβs hard to get excited by clothes youβve already wornΒ and deemed out of fashion once upon a time.
Hereβs another sign: a Groupon to your favorite rock band. Thatβs right, folks. The hair bands of your high school days, the ones your parents begged you to turn down, theyβre touring again and you can get a Groupon deal to go and see them. Yes, David Lee Roth, Iβm looking at you. When you can get a deep dish discount to see the premium bands of your youth, you may as well jump. Jump! Who knows, maybe Eddie Van Halenβs standing there, his back against the record machine wondering when the hell he got so old.
When the idea of staying up all night makes you physically ill, you know youβve hit middle age. When you canβt start watching a movie after 8:30 pm because youβre not sure youβll make it up to see the ending, and youβre ok with it? Youβre probably middle-aged.
If your teeth hurt watching kids gobble up cones of cotton candy bigger than their heads and guzzle orange soda, all those things you lived for as a kidβFun Dips for crying out loud--youβre probably middle-aged.
If you remember a time when peanut butter wasnβt a weapon of mass destruction, but just a sandwich filling youβre probably middle-aged. If there are dance clubs that play the music you cut your teeth on and theyβre billed as retro? Itβs a good sign youβre middle-aged.
If you start talking bout my generation, starting statements with βin my dayβ or waxing on, waxing off about how much better things used to be, youβre probably middle-aged.
If you think the current crop of kids is the end of the world as we know it? Youβre probably middle-aged. Video killed the radio star, but if youβre pretty sure YouTube killed the video star? Welcome to the middle ages, my friend.
Canβt find your lost shaker of salt? Donβt worry, most of us are having trouble remembering where we put stuff lately.
Perhaps Jimmy Buffett is really singing about life after 45. Maybe Margaritaville is really a retirement community bursting with paunchy men in Hawaiian prints and women in culottes and big hair. Think about it. Flip-flops and blender drinks. Baggy, elasticized clothes without buttons. Not remembering where you put the salt.
Damn. It doesnβt sound nearly as bad as it used to.
About Dina
Dina Honour, a New Yorker for over 20 years, currently lives abroad in Copenhagen. She’s a wife, mother, daughter, and sister. A lover of books, wine, and salty snacks. (Though increasingly she has to watch her intake of both the wine and the salty snacks.) Thankfully, she says, there are still books. Dina writes about life, parenting, living abroad and anything else that falls between the cracks. Her blog is Wine and Cheese (Doodles.) where this wonderful essay first appeared. You can follow her on Facebook or Twitter @DinaHonour. For another example of her writing, check out her essay Smells Like Teen Spirit on Andrea Reads America, a literary tour of the USA.
Hi Dina,
I enjoyed the post. The big one that hits me is when I remember being 20 and Jim Morrison was dead 20 years. It seemed so long ago. 20 years ago from now was only 1995 and it feels like a few months ago, ha ha.
There is still plenty of life left in us yet though π So much more π
Keith,
Somewhere out there is a meme lamenting the fact that 1990 still feels like it was only 10 years ago. I hear you! Despite the chin hairs and the night sweats and all the middle-aged spread baggage that comes with aging, my 40s have been fantastic. Wouldn’t go back to being 24 for anything–not even fewer wrinkles and a perkier bosom. Thanks for reading and taking the time to comment!