The Man In The Mirror

After reading “The Man in the Mirror” [Issue 169], I thought to myself that you’ll have another jolt in about thirty years — when you’ll be forced to realize that your children are becoming middle-aged! My oldest (of four) will hit fifty next year. An artist, she still seems like a kid to me. My youngest son, who’ll soon be thirty-nine, looks more middle-aged than she does, and so does the archaeologist son who is forty-two. Maybe the beards make them look their age. Certainly the daughter who just turned forty-seven, a single mother who recently got her master’s and is working on her Ph.D., doesn’t seem middle-aged to me at all. They are “middle” in the sense of being right in the middle of everything — kids, careers, creativity.

Three of my eight grandchildren are young adults, one already past her first marriage and divorce. This is another jolt.

But I have been trying hard to remember — when did I go through the transition that you describe so eloquently? When did I realize that I was no longer young, that I had tipped over onto the down-slope? Was it when I stopped dyeing my hair red and let the gray begin to creep? When we decided to take “early retirement” (not that I stayed retired) and left Manhattan for the redwood country? When I passed menopause? Or was it when I discovered that my husband could no longer crawl under the house to fix the furnace, and spading the garden was physically too onerous for me? Was it when I decided, the hell with it, I’ll always be short and fat, and devoted myself to walking miles or dancing to MTV but quit dieting? Was it when I realized that I could be “just friends” with men and nobody was hitting on anybody anymore? Perhaps all of those factors, little by little. I can’t remember any abrupt slap in the face such as you experienced with the baldness issue. (My husband is bald, and I think bald men are very sexy.)

In my late forties I had just remarried, and my man and I were going through a second teenager phase that was as delightful as it was ridiculous — fellow travelers with my hippie sons, Beatles freaks, peace marchers, and so on. I celebrated my fiftieth birthday by winning my Purple Heart — getting knocked down by a cop at the Rusk Riot. Another memorable day was the time in Riverside Park when my husband and I were mistakenly identified as the parents of my granddaughter!

Now, at seventy-two, with my first poetry chapbook just out and my weekly column appearing in the local paper, I am really trying to face this aging business.

First a word of cheer: as long as a person stays healthy, comfortable, active, I find this to be the happiest stage of life. Freedom! Minimal responsibilities! Age an excuse for anything you don’t want to do! Since my mother died and my kids are on their own, I am no longer the designated burden-bearer, as so many middle-aged folks are when both children and parents need their help.

However, I hear that countdown. The best one can hope for is the status quo, the delightful right now. The future does not bear looking at too closely. How much time have I got? Time comes out of the closet and leers at you in the dark hours.

There is the dread of illness or mental deterioration — for yourself or your mate. I volunteer twice a week at the local nursing home, forcing myself to face what can happen. I have always believed that a positive mind-set helps create a positive reality. I still believe it. It’s worked for me so far. But to what extent is it true, and to what extent is it a fancy masquerade for denial?

Aging is, after all, my “material,” given to me free, whether I want it or not; I use it quite a bit in columns and poems. But I have a hunch that somebody deep down inside me still isn’t convinced that it’s real.

I have to struggle with this. Your fine essay gives me an assist, and I thank you.