Comment: Alert the Media

It’s official. I’m middle-aged. I can crow on and on about how I’m “old”, and that’s not so traumatic because it isn’t really true. When a fortysomething person says “I’m old” what they’re really saying is they’re middle-aged. It almost seems MORE damning than saying you’re old. We respect the old. (Mostly.) We like the old. (Usually.) Middle aged people, aren’t they just, you know, Boomers?

OMG, GenX is middle-aged. We’ve become what the Boomers were. It’s the BOOMERS who are old now (Suck it, egomaniacs!) and we are the monkeys in the middle.*

How did I come to this conclusion? Well, I’ve started the slow decline to my twilight years (not the vampire kind) by the number of drapy, flowy, non-form-fitting tops I’ve accumulated in my closet. If you have more than two, you’re probably over 35. At least. I mean, I didn’t realize it was happening. But I recently became aware that I have a bevy (how many is that, exactly?) of drapy, flowy blouses that hide my muffin top quite nicely, thank you very much.

Because it’s also official: I have an impressive muffin top. I tried to shrug it off, run it off, but then I just kept scarfing it back on through my assiduous ingestion of chocolate, cookies, and more chocolate. Look, I like eating.

But what’s cool about middle age, (so far), is that I’m actually starting to care less. I mean, if I were 32 and looked the way I do now, I might be alarmed. But I’m ten years older! So really, so what? Who am I trying to impress? I’ve been out of the ingénue business for years. Even the sophisticated femme fatale is too young and trim for me.

Sure, if I had a trainer, a chef and a whole lot of money, I might be able to battle this belly bulge. But I don’t. I have two kids and a husband who is also middle-aged.

So I say, bring on the scarves, the tunics, the gowns and the robes! Bring on the flowing fabric and f that noise on trying to be thin, young and beautiful. In this case, one out of three ain’t bad, baby.







*It’s a good thing being middle-aged has nothing in common with the Middle Ages. That was one nasty-ass time to be alive. Which you weren’t for long anyway. I mean, there was no middle age back then.