Editor’s note: The following article is an op-ed, and the views expressed are the author’s own. Read more opinions on theGrio.
“How old are you?”
I was sizing up the man who had approached me an hour or so before, casually placing his chai latte alongside my old-fashioned on the theater’s bar as he introduced himself. Admittedly, I’d been enjoying our conversation, which felt easy and warm, even familiar. I also had to reluctantly admit I was sensing a vibe between us, but there was no way this man — whom I’d watched onstage earlier that evening — was interested in anything more than a friendly chat with a journalist covering his show.
“35,” he responded with a smirk.
A more-than-grown age; nothing to balk at. Except … it’d been nine years since I was 35.
“I’m…44,” I volunteered, offering him a gracious out. He didn’t flinch.
Four-and-a-half years later, we’re planning our September wedding, a first and hopefully only marriage for us both. As fate would have it, our wedding date falls during the only year we’ll both be in our forties.
While few people would even think to ask a 35-year-old actor why he’s never been married, a never-wed 44-year-old woman is bound to have encountered extensive inquiry into her marital status (or lack thereof), all essentially hinting at one question:
What’s wrong with you?
If anyone had ever dared ask me directly, I might’ve simply said in response, “Well, I’ve lived.”
I don’t say that with any sense of finality (I hope). It’s simply that, as a childless Gen X journalist now undeniably in middle age, I’ve become accustomed to uncomfortable questions and realities. Daily, I balance the keen awareness that my life is likely already half-over with feeling and at times, acting as if I’m still in my 20s. Nevertheless, amid a demanding career, the onset of perimenopause, middle-age spread, aging parents and retirement now…
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