What Was the First Age that Humbled You? And When Did You First "Come Into Your Own"?
30 terrified me. 57 feels pretty darn good. But I see 60 up ahead in the distance, and it's giving me pause. How about you? An open thread...
Readers,
Earlier this month I turned 57. It’s a number that boggles my mind, but I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that it also feels like the age at which I’ve finally “come into my own,” whatever that means.
That’s a vague term I’ve turned over in my head a lot; I distinctly remember my mother telling me 27 years ago that a woman first “comes into her own” at 30.
Back then, I was utterly freaked out by the idea that I was supposed to “come into my own” in any way upon the completion of my third decade, because quite frankly, I was a mess. The number felt impossibly grown up to me, especially given where I was at in my life—divorced for three years after marrying almost criminally young, flitting around the East Village with a string of non-committal Peter Pan types, struggling to gain traction as the kind of writer I wanted to be while languishing in the trenches of trade magazine publishing.
I was so thrown off by 30 that I threw myself three different birthday parties as a way to manage my anxiety over being late to feeling like a true adult—a big bash in my East Village tenement, plus two smaller gatherings of family and friends at Lucky Cheng’s and Three of Cups. At 35, I journaled about the elusiveness of that “coming into my own” feeling:
Since then, no number has had the same effect on me—except the one that’s coming down the pike three years from now. In February, my husband Brian turned 60, and I must say, he wears it well—he both looks and acts impossibly boyish, so much so that it’s hard to wrap my head around that number, on him, or on me.
I suppose I owe part of this disconnect to the fact that we don’t have kids, nor, obviously, grandkids, as do so many of our peers. What we originally perceived as an unfortunate infertility problem turned out to be a source of a kind of privilege, which we greatly enjoy. We also derive tremendous enjoyment out of being silly together—he puns constantly, and we both frequently sing favorite songs with alternative goofy lyrics. I also burst out into show tunes (I dance along, too) whenever our conversation brings one to mind. We both work hard, but we also have a really good time.
I probably shouldn’t be afraid of 60, given that 57 agrees with me pretty well. I feel the most “me” I’ve ever felt, personally, and professionally. I’m enjoying my life for the most part (when I’m not freaking out about the state of the country and the world). In the past year I fulfilled my greatest achievement yet as a writer, publishing my debut memoir. I work entirely too much for too little money, but for the first time in my life, all the gigs I’m juggling feel aligned with who I am, which is satisfying, if not exhausting. So who knows, maybe three years from now I’ll just feel even more like myself, in a good way.
Now I want to hear from you. In the comments tell me, what was the first age that gave you pause? And when did you “come into your own,” assuming that’s already occurred?
-Sari
At 69, in lockdown with the big 7-0 bearing down on me, I came into my own. The public health establishment told me I was old--so old I shouldn’t go outside lest I end up on a respirator. But I felt vigorous and resilient. I discovered it felt good to clean my own home, blocking out the shape of my book as I buzzed around. I turned cooking dinner into an adventure and served new recipes with a sense of ceremony. My husband and I, coming up to our fiftieth anniversary, would hold hands as we finished the wine and remark on how lucky we were to have each other and the home we’d made. I thought often of those who were alone, sleeping rough or struggling to look after children in a tight space, and I felt for those people. For the first time in my life, I understood that I had everything I needed. Although I missed traveling, I made discoveries on every walk with my dog. I had only to notice what had changed since yesterday. Without leaving home, I went somewhere new every morning. Today, at 73, I hold my pandemic memories close. My 70s have humbled me. I rarely experience a day without pain. I can’t walk as far or as fast as I did a few years ago. Sometimes I wonder what it’s like to live one’s life on a single city block. It could happen to me, an unsettling thought. If it does I will find my way. I’m old enough to know what a lot I can make of a little.
The older I get, the more humbled I become. I'm 55 now, and I can truthfully say I've never had a career, nor am I likely ever to get one. I mention the idea of having a career because I think that's how society judges men; by their ability to make money. You can be sensitive, funny, attractive, etc., but if you can't demonstrate the ability to make money, you're a failure. How many poor, sensitive men are you friends with? Probably none. I realize this might be a superficial way of looking at things, but as I compare myself to all my current male friends, and I see the arc of their professional and financial lives ever rising, it's hard not to feel bitter. I have a job (three, in fact), a happy marriage, and two wonderful adult children. I've been a pretty good husband and father. But as I begin to test the waters of the current job market, I realize I'm on the downward slope of my working life. Ageism feels very real. I can't make it past the first round of interviews. I feel like potential employers look at my resume, see that I gradated from college during the last century, and toss my application in the recycle bin. This never used to happen. So I fall back on the cliched mental trick of "enjoying the little things in life;" making coffee, going for a walk, reading a book. But it's not enough. If I'm honest, I probably "came into my own" (peaked?) when I was a sophomore at Syracuse University. I was only there for one semester before transferring, but I blazed like a comet across the sky, falling in and out of love many times, and basically just trying to suck the marrow out of life. One night, I was at a bar. It was on the second floor of a building, so you could look out the window at the twinkling lights of the downtown Syracuse skyline while you drank your weak gin and tonic out of a clear plastic cup. I had just gotten a haircut I was really proud of, probably the best haircut of my life, short on the back and sides, kind of long and floppy in front, very Echo and the Bunnymen. A girl, a stranger, approached me at the end of the night. She reached up and brushed the hair back from my eyes, her fingers touching my forehead. She smiled and said she was only in town for one night. Nothing happened. I left the bar pretty quickly after that. I realize she was probably drunk, and I'm sure I was too. But I've thought about that moment many times. At one point in my life, a stranger found me beautiful. That might be the peak, right there.