On growing older and finding myself (There I am!)

I am having a midlife crisis. Have been for quite some time now. I looked up the definition of midlife crisis on Wikipedia because I look up everything, and without going into specifics, the definition pretty much fits me to a T. (As a writer whose name escapes me once said, “The internet is like crack for writers.” Amen, sistah.) There’s a passage in the Wiki-entry saying that there are those who question the validity of the midlife crisis, but I’m here to tell you it’s real my friends. Very real. I've talked with others my age whom it’s happening to, too.

I think that it’s not easy for people from my generation to get older. We are from the 1980s, goddammit. The “me” decade. The age of bubblegum fashion and buying shit for absolutely no reason. We are the generation of Duran Duran and Run DMC. Of Rubik’s Cube, Atari and the first personal computers. Madonna and Cyndi Lauper. The age of big hair, plastic Swatch watches and Air Jordans. The definitive age of endless distraction and consumerism.

We can’t get old. We can’t … shudder … die.

But it’s happening. Several of my friends have lost their parents. Some of us have had cancer. A few people in my graduating class--more than I'd like to think about--have passed on. We are feeling our aches and pains. We are feeling the effects of too many cigarettes, too much alcohol, too many drugs, not enough sleep and too much hairspray. We are feeling our age. We are on the downside of life.

Recently, like the Wicked Witch of the West, I have noticed that I am melting. Every day my face slides a little further down my neck. My neck is becoming a little puddle of fat on my chest. My waist has pretty much ceased to exist. And while I’m sort of getting used to it, some days, I just cannot take that shit.

In order to cope mentally, I’ve decided to take back some control of the time and gravity victim that is my body. I don’t mean exercise, though I do engage in that regularly now. I mean piercings. Tattoos. Hair color. I may not be able to control the wrinkles, but ink? A few extra holes? That I can control. All it takes is a little cash. And ’80s babies know all about buying happiness.

For a time, I listened to the fashion gurus who always say that once you’re 40, “Less is more.” Lay low, they say. Wear less makeup, not more. Lower your hemline. If you wore a fashion fad in your teens or twenties, don’t wear it when it comes around again, because now you’re too old to pull it off. Don’t be overly noticeable. Be dignified.

Then I decided: Eff all of that.

I got my nose pierced a few months ago. After doing so, a few people expressed their appreciation, but far more didn’t mention it at all. I’m pretty sure it’s one of those “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all,” situations and the silence has been kind of deafening. But that’s okay. Everyone is entitled to her or his opinion and I honestly couldn’t give less of a fuck what anybody thinks. I like it.

All through my teens and twenties, I wanted to get my hair colored an unnatural color. I went through a pretty long phase of being a bottle redhead, but that’s not what I mean. I mean I wanted my hair to be bubble gum pink or blue or black with purple tips and I always envied people who had the chutzpah to get a Mohawk. But the time never seemed right, and I never had the nerve to do it. Back then, it seemed more prudent to conform and fit in. Now I know that time is not a luxury I will always have. So I went to my hairdresser one Saturday and asked her to put streaks of blonde, fire engine red and eggplant in my boring, thinning brown hair. Some people say they like it. Some people don’t say anything. Some people just stare. 

I freaking love it. For reals.

Next is a tattoo. I do have one tattoo: It’s small and in a place not visible to most people. The new tattoo will be out in the open. I just need to make the appointment. (I recently discovered that the guy who did my first tattoo works just a couple of doors down from where I work. Ah, sweet serendipity!) Down the road I’m thinking about another tattoo on my wrist and a few more piercings in my ears. 

I know some people think the trappings of the midlife crisis are self-indulgent and/or a pathetic cry for attention. I don't quite see what I'm doing as that. Yes, it’s sort of self-indulgent. But you know what? I've devoted a hell of a lot of years to thinking about other people. Making sure that they were looked after and made happy. I denied myself a lot of wants because I was afraid of what other people would think. I put myself second for a long time. But no more. That is one of the best bonuses of growing older. Having the nerve to tell the world, in no uncertain terms: “I am tired, world. I have had enough. I no longer care about trying to control your perception of me. You can think any damn thing you want, and it no longer affects me. Kiss. My. Ass.”

Lately my daughter has been looking at me skeptically. “What kind of mother are you?” she asks. 

“A bad one,” I joke, though that’s not totally true. I’m the kind of mom who’s trying to show her daughter that it’s okay to be your own person. That it’s okay to tell society to go fuck itself when society is telling you to lose weight and put on heels. That it’s okay to not be sure of yourself all the time. That it’s okay to experiment and find your way. That it really is okay to be yourself, as long as you’re decent toward other people. Being decent toward other people, though, does not mean shutting yourself down.