The day my youth went to the moon
Posted on February 21st, 2013
A long time ago, in an AP Composition class far, far away, I was assigned a partner for a writing assignment in which we had to write what we thought the other would be doing in twenty or thirty years.
I can’t remember what I wrote for my partner. She and I had previously bonded over our mutual love for Camper Van Beethoven. She predicted I’d be an impoverished writer living in New York City in a hole in the wall apartment. She meant it well and was surprised I was offended, but in my teenaged fantasy, I sure as hell wasn’t going to be impoverished.
In retrospect, she got most of it right. I’m poor. I’m not sure this condo is a hole in the wall per se, but it’s close. I write. It’s just Portland, not NYC.
All of this is to say that with the milestone birthday approaching, I am struggling with the number. As a rule, birthdays don’t worry me, because I’m significantly younger than M, and I am younger than almost all of my IRL friends (but older than most of my online friends).
After this birthday, I’m no longer young, at least as our society views youth. I’ll be as old as my mother was when I entered high school. The number reminds me I’m on my way to invisibility, and that scares me. Sure, it’s vanity. I’m vain. I pluck out the white hairs appearing at my temples. I’m more than a little glad Botox was the last best hope for getting the migraines under control, because that eyebrow furrow is GONE.
Also, I can’t stop thinking of the things I thought I would have done by now. This is an irrational pity party: I know that. I have done a lot of things I’m proud of, that are accomplishments in anyone’s book. I helped a lot of people, even some who didn’t want to be helped. This time, reminding myself doesn’t work.
The pity party is stupid, but I can’t stop.
Pea has told me she wants to get me a unicorn, a Pegasus, a ship, and a sloth for my birthday. Those would all be nice (I really would like a sloth). In reality, I’m asking M for membership to a couple of academic historical societies, so I can get their journals and access to the back issues of their journals online. The silver lining of poverty is the going rate for memberships in my income bracket is dirt cheap — only a little more than a couple of tickets to see CVB.
My partner, by the way? We haven’t kept in touch, but from mutual FB contacts, I can see she’s now something of a bigwig in Hollywood.
I am sorry about your doubts! It’s so hard to feel valuable when you are hoeing your own row, working for yourself (or unpaid for your family). And not having enough money is tremendously demoralizing and stressful. You are in good company, however: I hear the concerns you’re verbalizing often online and in the media (a lot of times not IRL). Keep in mind that this could all change rather quickly depending upon your employment status.
That’s so true. Professionally, I’m proud of what I’m done. I don’t regret the time away from the law (because it was for the right reasons, and it was the right decision for the family/Pea). I just never thought at 40 money would be my No. 1 concern. (Although I probably ought to have, since it’s most people’s main concern!)
If it’s any consolation, I thought that we’d be better off at 33 since in some ways, we were better off at 26 than we are now thanks to investments going boom. And I don’t know what I’d imagined I’d be doing at this point, but for some reason I thought I’d be more, uh, well known? Which is silly, I guess…
It’s funny how unhappiness really springs from comparisons with our expectations or others. I wish I knew how to turn that off (short of becoming a Buddhist nun).
I know what you mean – I’m 43 and money is still a huge concern; I was sure I’d have a house full of nice thing and be settled by now. That’s getting closer, but I really thought I’d have it by now. It is depressing. (I also thought I’d have written a book by now…)
What I like is to collect stories of people who didn’t make their fantabulous mark on the world until later in life… like Gerda Lerner! http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gerda_Lerner And Doris Lessing didn’t win the Nobel Prize until she was 87! Grandma Moses didn’t begin painting till she was in her 70s! Heck, Laura Ingalls Wilder didn’t publish the Little House books till she was in her 60s. They give me hope.
(The invisibility of older women in our culture is hard to deal with, though… I hate the fetishization of youth, yet I can’t help be thrilled when people tell me I don’t look my age. That strikes me as a bad thing to be proud of. Ugh.)
I can remember the point where men of about 20-25 stopped noticing me and it was bizarre, but didn’t bother me (because I never was all that into men of 20-25). One of the reasons I almost always dress up (for this town) is because I do get noticed. Hats — also a great way to be visible. I’m not going gently into invisibility, that’s for sure.
Money is only not a concern for me thanks to IBR/public interest loan forgiveness, and a husband who makes better education/career choices. Yeah, this isn’t where I thought my life would be when I stopped aging at 29. I didn’t know what exactly I thought I’d accomplish, but I just revised my CV, and well, I thought I’d accomplish more than that by now. The aging thing really bothers me, even if I am just a middle-schooler on the inside.
Thank goodness for husbands who picked practical professions! Although at the rate I’m going, I’ll have to found my own non-profit to get that forgiveness (have seriously considered it, too).