Birthday Blah Blah Blog: Hitting The Wall

I'm having a birthday this month. A biggie. At this advanced age, early Alzheimer's may indeed be setting in. But I never had much of a memory, especially when it comes to childhood and family matters (perhaps a subconscious but intentional internal editing?). Nonetheless, a few things I’ll never forget. One is a comment made several years ago by a male in-law regarding a female relative. One of the family beauties, in fact. She, at the time, was probably somewhere in her mid to late 30’s, as lovely and sweet as the day she was born. He, on the other hand, carried no distinction, just one of the unillustrious m en who married into the family, mediocre and unextraordinary in every way.

In a conversation with another male in-law, I overheard him say that my pretty cousin had “hit the wall.” I’d never heard this expression before and had no idea what it meant. As they continued discussing this observation, I asked the meaning of “hitting the wall.” Hesitant at first, they eventually gave it up that “hitting the wall” served as some sort of guy code indicating the point in time at which a pretty young thing starts to lose her girlish good looks and begins to – dare I say it? – show signs of aging.

I was mortified. There’s a term for this? The moment at which some random nobody deigns that you have peaked, have gone “over the hill” and have begun your descent into oblivion? That you no longer embody their (and society’s) concept of young and dewy and desirable? That you, now commencing your downward spiral, have become irrelevant, to them and everyone? That as (in their estimation) your looks have tarnished and you no longer hold any sway over their libido, your value has diminished?

At, like, 35 years old? I mean, are they fucking kidding? That this proclamation, this statement of fact, was coming from overweight, middle-aged, “normal” (read: mainstream, average, unexceptional) men just floored me. The person in question was undoubtedly still lovely, only now she exuded a more defined and mature beauty. Perhaps she no longer was “the pretty girl”; she now looked like a real woman, full and grown and complete. At least I thought so.

Was I correct, a member of the minority, wishfully thinking, or completely delusional?

It’s certainly no surprise that we, all of us, still judge women, much more so than men (initially, and perhaps primarily) on their appearance. The perfection of their complexion, the proportions of their body, their style of dress, hair and make-up are fodder for compliments, comments and critiques from both genders. Decades of feminism hasn’t done much to erase millennia of this multi-layered sexism. When it comes to women, appearance still seems to form the foundation on which all other judgments are based. Think back to the way Hillary was pilloried during the 2008 presidential election for everything from her wardrobe, her make-up, her tired weary eyes! The way that the 15-minutes of political fame granted a moronic but telegenic cipher such as Palin was allowed to grow into a media career because of her beehive hair-do and beauty-pageant looks. The dumb commentary and thrashing that the brilliant and accomplished Sotomayor and Kegan have borne after their nominations for Supreme Court justice were announced. (Did Scalia or Alito undergo such irrelevant commentary and unnecessary scrutiny? Fox News did, however, make a ridiculous fuss over Roberts’ blue, blue eyes.) Now we’ve got a catfight over hair styles in the California senate race …

I could fill page after page, site example after example on this topic of the waste, the shame, the danger of reducing women to the sum of their physical parts. (I put together several seminars on the subject of women and beauty and self-esteem and aging and purpose and overcoming entrenched, perceived “realities” about them.) Others are making the case: A new translation of Simone de Beauvoir’s “The Second Sex” has recently been published; Nicholas Kristof and his wife Sheryl WuDunn talk about it in “Half The Sky.” Now it’s time to really put my money where my mouth is: hitting the wall hits home.

You see, despite officially entering “middle-age,” for the past decade I’ve undergone a professional and spiritual metamorphosis. I became a life coach; I explored disparate philosophies, theologies, spiritual teachings and practices to better understand how we think, what we feel and why, what’s true and what’s imagined, what really matters, etc. I grew up on so many levels, without growing old …

Counterintuitively, during this pre-menopausal decade I may actually look better than ever. It’s as if my very own Oscar Wilde-ian portrait in the attic has helped keep me relatively youthful and vibrant through this middle stage. (Might not being saying much, but it may very well be true.) I certainly feel stronger, more confident, not to mention fitter, more powerful and wiser than ever. Now, is this because I actually look good, because I think I look good, or because I don’t really give a shit if people think I look good because I feel great? Perhaps in tweaking how I viewed things, what I decided mattered, what I embraced as “the truth,” I shucked the confines of the old order and established a paradigm for a brave new world for myself?

I am woman, hear me roar, yo.

But now, as I approach another birthday milestone, I’m not feeling quite so indomitable. The number looms large in my mind. Life’s mid-point. Between the end of the beginning and the beginning of the end. The line of demarcation between the first half of life, so full of potential and possibility, and the second, when tracks should have been laid and things should be merrily rolling along on cruise control. Which would be fine, if it were so.

But I’m not too feeling great about this milestone. It’s not really the age thing; it’s the life thing. Because for whatever reasons, the usual default programs – marriage, children - failed to boot for me. With with so few of the usual trappings of success to boast about – no husband, no kids, no major claim to fame, no millions in the Roth IRA, no house in the country – I sometimes find myself wondering: Have I failed at life? Is that how the world views someone like me? Are they right?

(Not sure when this idea was introduced into my psyche, but I do recall a male family member, who I adored and respected, calling my wonderful and spirited godmother, one of my mother’s sisters who never married and or had children, a “wasted life.” Wish I had edited that out …)

For whatever reason, since the dawn of 2010, when I look in the mirror I am less pleased than in the past. The cute smile-induced crinkles around my eyes seem much less charming. What’s up with these dark shadows, why do I look as though I haven’t slept a wink even after seven hours of uninterrupted shut-eye? Why do I feel I look fatigued when I don’t feel fatigued? What the hell’s going on with my once swan-like neck????

Have I sung my swan song? Have I passed my peak? Finally hit the wall? Am I drifting into menopause and decrepitude and oblivion, without anyone to notice or care, en route to becoming one of those unmarried, childless little old ladies who people pity if they pay them any mind at all?

When instead I turn my focus on the frequent, unsolicited compliments I receive about my thick curly locks, my radiant complexion, my toned back (which apparently inspires friends to make the effort to go to hot yoga class), I get to thinking:

Are the changes I think I see real? Actually taking place on my physical self as nature’s response to the passage of time?
Are they real, but have I myself created them because I believe it’s now “time” for these changes to happen?
Are they “happening” in my mind’s eye, a projection of what I’ve been taught happens at this stage of life? If so, could I create some other reality within the illusion?

More importantly: why do I care? What ever happened to revering rather than dreading age and experience?

Yes, I believe that we’re spiritual beings living a physical existence; yes, I prefer to think that none of this is real, “it’s just an illusion”, temporary, transient, a blip on the computer screen of our eternity; yes, of course I realize that we’re all beautiful and perfect exactly as we happen to be, “made in his image” and God don’t do ugly –

But, still. Sometimes I forget that we’re not living in a material world and that I’m a material girl -

I guess my point is that if, even with my many years of training as an empowerment coach, in conjunction with life-long personal spiritual pursuits – courses, books, seminars, mastermind groups, oh my! – and my professional mission of changing people’s lives and the planet for the better, I sometimes feel a bit depressed and despondent at this stage of life, it must be a little slice of hell on earth for others.

As per usual, my existential angst comes and goes. Today, go figure, I’m feeling a little better, I’ve released some of the toxins. When I permit myself to be honest, authentic, to feel what I’m feeling, to allow the voices in my head speak their fears and false truths even when it’s painful, I can go through it and eventually find myself on the other side. When I give the demons free rein do their ugly little dance for a bit, they eventually wear themselves out and split.

There’s a part of me that rails against the puffing of the eyes, the creping of the neck, the fading of the glow. Why do we live in a time and place where youth if favored over age and wisdom? Why does our sense of self and well being depend so much on our conformity to the beauty standards of the day, so arbitrary, transient and downright silly, frequently expensive, usually unattainable, sometimes dangerous or deadly? Where does it come from in the first place, so oppressive and restrictive? Why do we depend so much on others’ assessment of us? Why do we allow ourselves to be manipulated and enslaved by so many false gods? Why do we listen to those messages rather than the exquisite, ageless song of our soul? Why do we focus on the illusion of change rather, than the unchanging, eternal and beautiful and perfect?

Especially when it’s all in our head?

Maybe I’ll just skip town and skip this birthday … before my mind and memory go completely.

© 2010 Theresa Quadrozzi – A-Muse-In-Manhattan