Time Sensitive Material, Handle with Care

Cartoon: Sadat

I am 43 years old. There, I said it. I turned 43 about two weeks ago. I pretended it didn't happen. I celebrated my birthday and enjoyed myself, but I studiously ignored the number attached to it and that it meant I was one year older and hurtling towards death. I have been in denial that I am solidly in middle age and that I have been crowding the wrong side of 50 for a while now.
And the one thing I am more terrified of than death is living out my remaining years lamenting my fading and faded youth, of being mired in vanity and becoming that pathetic old broad who wears too much eyeliner, or cleavage bearing clothing, flirts with young boys and makes what she thinks are “cool” dirty jokes at parties. It's like being in a constant state of mourning. Not embracing one's aging is actually eschewing life and espousing living death because we are holding on to the past.
I see many women trying so hard to hold on to their youth. It's not all our fault. I know I am feeling the pressure. For the first time I am conscious of how much advertising and movies and the media are so geared towards celebrating youth. But all this outward work and focus will not bring about any measure of inner peace.
 I have been lucky in that my roundish face suggests I am younger than 43, and bask in comments like, “oh I thought you were a student, not a professor, or you don't look like you have a 15 year old kid!” I realized, however, that I was relying too heavily on those comments. My hidden insecurities about getting older were attached to these compliments. It's addictive. So recently, when someone asked me how old my son was and I told them, I automatically expected her to say, oh! You look too young. I smiled at her and waited for the compliment. Only it didn't come. I kept smiling at her, she kept smiling at me. So I said again, in case she missed it,
“Yeah. He's 15. Can you believe it?”
“Yeah I know. Kids grow fast.”

And that was it. No, there's no way you could have a teenage son, or my personal favorite, “were you 12 when you had him”?
I was all dolled up too because it was a wedding. I went back to my table and sat down and looked around at all the lovely young women dancing and laughing and thought, oh boy, Sharbari, this is it. The beginning of the end. The rapid decline of my youthful sexiness and appeal. I have entered into the realm of“ mostly invisible to menmy age” because it will be plain that there are no more eggs left in my basket. I could be standing next to a 25 year old girl with a lazy eye and a gimpy leg, but everyone will notice her, for the simple reason that she is 25 and I am 125. I will now have to purchase products that keep my décolleté uplifted and my neck from revealing my real age. I am not even sure what a décolleté is but it's French and they have somehow figured out how to stave off aging. Whatever IT is, it needs to stay up and hold its own for as long as possible otherwise I will disappear. That's it, if I give the impression of being young, I will not disappear. That, and a lot of selfies reminding me that I am not that old and hurtling towards death will keep me visible. It occurred to me that I have been young for so long I did not expect to get older.
But this is precisely what I do not want to do to myself. I understand that these thoughts are a waste of time and are biting into my present. I look in the mirror sometimes and search for the girl that I was. I was such a hellion as a teenager and for a long time—even into my 20's and 30's that was the mantle I wore, so much so that sometimes I think I even forget that is not who I am now. Though, not even the adult realties of life, divorce, death, rejection, exorbitant home repair bills have totally knocked that teenage girl out of me. And never will. But I am also fundamentally different in many ways, and slowly becoming more of who I am at my core. I think. Sometimes I am not sure of even who that is.
I recently received a message from a fan who said, “I am 24 years old, but I think I am in love with you and your writing. I wish I could become older and mesmerize you into a relationship.”
Besides the slightly stalkery nature of the message, it was very sweet, but got me thinking again of the fact that he obviously is under no illusions of my advanced years in comparison to him. Not even my carefully selected profile pictures concealing my age fooled him. I am, egad, old enough to be his mother. In fact I have t-shirts older than this eager lothario. Instead of being flattered I am dismayed. Yet I know of women, even older than me, who would indulge this because it makes them feel young and special. I am terrified of being one of those women. I don't want to feel young and special, I want to feel 43 and fine because that is where I am at this moment.
43 is a good solid number. I have 43 years worth of experience and stuff that might help other people, right? It is exhausting to try and be anything or anyone than who and what I am. Which is 43, cuarenta y tres, tetallish, quarantatre. Maybe if I keep saying it, it won't scare me so much.