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