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Here’s another one of my pieces from “Writing the Gorgeous Shipwreck of Middle Age. This was a promote to the question “When will I experience middle age?”

I find it in people’s eyes, the disregard and discrediting, “Oh, she’s just an old woman. What does she know?”

I hear it in the laments of my mother as she stretches the wrinkles on her face, and now me wanting to do the same.

I feel it in my hands, these days more like my grandmother’s and less like mine.

I detect it in my grandchildren who are disappointed that I can’t join them on the trampoline.

I sense it in my co-workers, viewing me with skepticism offput by my confidence, honed from years of experience.

I experience it, shifting from one foot to the other, easing the discomfort after hours of standing

I realize it in the obituaries I scan noticing those who’ve passed now uncomfortably close to my age

I know it when I realized I’m the last of a generation, no heirs to follow in my footsteps