Why I Refused to Accept That I'm Middle-Aged

I was on a call with a client in the beauty industry whose target consumer was middle-aged women.

Later, while recapping the conversation to my co-founders Rachel & Heather, I said something along the lines of:

"I really love the brand. I mean, I'm obviously not their target consumer because they're squarely focused on middle-aged women, but I think a lot of my older friends would love it."

I am 43 years old.

Heather, who has never once edited a reaction in her life, burst out laughing. It wasn't a mean laugh. It was a genuinely bewildered laugh. The kind of laugh someone makes when they've just discovered you've been operating under a completely alternate version of reality.

"What age do you think is considered middle-aged?" she asked.

I mumbled something noncommittal.

She continued.

"Or, another way to think about it: How old do you plan to live? Cut that number in half."

I did the math and did not care for the results.

But honestly, I wasn't buying it. I have a very specific image in my head of what a middle-aged woman looks, feels, and acts like. And spoiler alert: it is not me.

For starters, Blanche Devereaux was 51 years old when The Golden Girls premiered.

Fifty-one. (I need everyone to sit with that information for a moment.)

It wasn't just TV characters that convinced us life was over at midlife. Our parents did a pretty good job of that, too.

I remember the "Over the Hill" decorations that covered our house when my mom turned 40. Black balloons. Grim reapers. Tombstones. Every possible joke reminded her - and everyone else - that the good part was over.

Congratulations on your birthday! The best years are behind you and you're basically dead. The cultural messaging was not subtle.

And for women especially, the message wasn't just that aging was inevitable. It was that aging was a problem.

Beauty, confidence, and sex appeal belonged to younger women. Middle age meant fading away. It meant your best years had already happened. Becoming older meant becoming less interesting, less relevant, less attractive, less powerful.

The problem is that none of those things have turned out to be true!!!

At 43, I am more comfortable in my own skin than I've ever been.

I say "no" infinitely more easily and "yes" much more intentionally. I make decisions without crowd-sourcing them from six friends and a group chat (the only remotely disparaging thing you'll ever hear me say about group chats). I trust my instincts. I spend dramatically less time worrying about whether everyone likes me. I finally know how to dress for my body (and appreciate the body I have).

And perhaps most controversially: I think I might actually look better at 43 than I did at 23.

So yes, I suppose Heather was right. I am, technically speaking, a middle-aged woman.

But I think we need a better definition. Not just because I love rebranding things, but because if this is middle age, it looks a lot different than I was led to believe.

And for the record, Heather, I plan to live until at least 104. So depending on how you do the math, I'm still practically a teenager. 

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