Is This It?
A GenX Mid-life Crisis Rant
“You’re so brave,” she says. She waves her cell phone, pointing at my most recent Instagram post. My daughter had snapped the photo — sand clinging to my hair and sticking to my cheeks, my midriff exposed — a captured moment of joy with family and friends.
Apparently, it takes courage to look like me.
She means well. Her twenty-something body vibrates with politically correct good intentions. After all, we are living in the age of body positivity. Right? I glance in the mirror above the table. I don’t look at myself. I never look at myself anymore — too afraid I won’t recognize my own reflection.
I turn 49 this month. I don’t feel 49, at least on the inside. On the inside, I am 30 and trim and attractive and witty and bold and sexual. On the outside, I am a casualty of gravity, of slow metabolism, and perimenopause — a car wreck of accumulated life choices. My boobs are racing for my waistline. I need a side mirror to see around my backside. And I’m not even discussing the skin under my arms. My face is young. My hands are wrinkled.
I am overweight, round in a way that can’t be disguised by flowy material or ‘so-slimming’ jeans or floral print. Although, if we are honest, does floral print ever help? Worse, I am overweight and short. I could be a rom-com sidekick if I were even remotely bubbly.
