When New Middle Age Feels Like Becoming an Adult (All Over Again)
What kind of middle-aged woman am I going to be?
It started innocently enough.
I was clearing out my wardrobe, making room for my boyfriend to hang his clothes up.
(The story goes like this: after three months together, the coronavirus lockdown hit. We talked about whether to stay apart for a while, or throw everything at our relationship and see what stuck, and we chose the latter option. Luckily, what stuck was love…
…and crucially, the ability to tolerate each-other in a relatively small space we weren’t able to leave.)
I’m forty-three, so this wasn’t my first “living with someone else” rodeo. But it was almost a decade since I shared a wardrobe with another person, and it showed.
Slinky dresses, short skirts, and sparkly crop tops were hauled gainfully out of the yawning cavern into which they’d been stuffed and forgotten about, along with the sensible suits I’d sat behind corporate desks in, and the floaty chiffon dresses I wore to other people’s weddings.
I tried everything on before deciding whether to keep or ditch. As I stood barefoot in front of my full-length mirror, new body straining against old clothes, I saw something I wasn’t expecting.
