I think I’m a woman “of a certain age,” though when I tried to find a definition of the term, I couldn’t. I checked online at dictionary.com, but it wasn’t there, so I gave up.
Which is so like a woman of a certain age.
We have perspective.
In other words, I think I know the definition and I’m going with it. It isn’t worth the time to look it up, especially when I could die at any minute.
Now, to begin.
I think a “woman of a certain age” means a woman in her fifties, though I’ve never heard the term applied to men in their fifties, which is odd. In any event, let’s say that today I’m writing for men and women of a certain age.
We’ll call it Life in the Middle Ages.
It’s a weird time in lots of ways, but here’s the way it’s weird today. I’m thinking lately about Mother Mary, living in Miami with brother Frank. By way of background, until fifteen years ago, she lived in the house I grew up in, about five minutes from my house. She babysat for daughter Francesca while I worked part-time for the federal courts, before I was a writer. Then, after I finally got published (after five years of rejection, but that’s another story), I stayed home, and my mother decided to move in with Frank.
We did talk about her living with me, but she thought my life was “too boring.” She said, “all you do is read and write,” which is true, except for the chicken part. Now, I feed chickens. I read, write, and feed chickens. I know it sounds boring, but it’s my life’s dream. And it’s my blessing, or maybe my curse, to never be bored.
By anything.
Anyway, my mother lives down in Miami and she’s happy as a clam. Brother Frank has tons of friends, all of whom are very attentive to mommies, and my mother goes out to dinner and has fun. I can barely get her to visit me for a long stretch because she misses her life, house, and dogs. So our time together is over the telephone, and if I don’t call her for a few days, she’ll say when she answers:
“Hi, stranger.”
Or, “Who’s this?”
Then we’ll start talking about the weather or her eyes or who’s sick in the family and stuff like that. Again, it’s not boring, at least to me.
It’s our only connection. I hear her voice, and she’s hears mine. We laugh at things that only we think are funny, and every time we sign off, she says what she used to say before I went to bed-“pleasant dreams.” I like the phrase so much that I stole it and say it to Francesca. Now, at the end of the phone call, my mother says it to me because she knows I like to hear it. Even at two o’clock in the afternoon.
And even though I’m a woman of a certain age.
But recently, I found myself thinking that, some day, my phone will ring, and it won’t be Mother Mary. She has survived a world war and throat cancer, but one day, it will be Frank, calling me. And then he’ll tell me what he has to say.
That will be how I find out.
As unimaginable as it is, I find myself imagining it more and more, with dread. Mostly these thoughts come to me at night, and then I can’t sleep.
Pleasant dreams.
I don’t know how to prepare for that phone call, and I wouldn’t try even if I did. I’m just grateful for the time we have. After I finish this column, I’m going to call Mother Mary and hear her say:
Hi, stranger.
Now, consider that daughter Francesca has graduated from college and is living at home, temporarily. She’s deciding what to do and where to do it, and sooner or later, she’s going to fly the coop for good. I won’t be able to say “pleasant dreams” to her anymore. I don’t know how to prepare for that, and wouldn’t try if I did. I’m just grateful for the time we have together.
And so, to me, that’s the weird thing about Life in the Middle Ages. We are all of us, in some way, waiting to be left.
We exist in a state of emotional suspended animation.
It ain’t easy, and it makes me wonder:
Aren’t we really women “of an uncertain age?”