On being fifty-plus

A bit of introspection today.

Yesterday, an article popped up in my feed in one of my social media spaces. One of those ones that you know has been selected for you based on an algorithm. This one was all about fashion mistakes that middle aged women make, that make them look older. I was proud of my middle aged sisterhood for responding by flipping the article the collective bird in the comments section.

But it set me thinking.

Once we hit this patch on life's journey, we're constantly being given hints and tips on looking younger, slimmer, more attractive. Now, I understand that on a purely instinctual level, men are more likely to be attracted to women who are (or appear to be) of reproductive age. It's that whole hard-coded drive to procreate. Attracting a mate is in the very DNA of living things.

But for those of us whose reproductive years are behind us, surely there are more important things to do than pretend to still be young enough to gestate?

Use our cosmetics (tested on animals) to make yourself look younger and more attractive to men!

Ugh.

I'm not suggesting that we neglect our skin care regimes and abdicate stewardship of bodies and faces. But surely we can move on from this notion that old=ugly? My skin is pretty good, but it is unmistakably the skin of a woman in her mid 50s. And why is that a bad thing? I am a woman in her mid 50s. My skin has housed me all that time. It has stretched as I grew up or got larger through pregnancy or gluttony. It has also (albeit less frequently and less dramatically) shrunk, after childbirth or due to diet-and-exercise. It bears the marks of the story of my life so far. A scar on my cheek from a close encounter of the painful kind with a steering wheel. Another across my brow bone, where said brow bone once made a bid for freedom and tried to forge a new life for itself on the outside of my skin. Stretch marks like laddered tights all over my hips where growing babies tested the limits of its capacity to stretch. Inevitably, for a woman who grew up in a sunny country in the days before people cared about sunblock, I have a few of the clusters of melanin referred to as age spots. I'm carrying far too much weight, and for the sake of my health, I should shed it. But my skin soldiers on, housing all the excess me and taking it in its stride.

You've got to respect that. Come on.

Stop wearing that. It ages you. Wear this. It makes you look younger.

But I'm not younger. And why is that a bad thing? I've had almost 55 years of doing stuff. There's no way all that stuff could have fitted into a shorter period of time. 12 years at school, almost 30 years of marriage, a master's degree, a career spanning 25 years, two adult sons. Races run, songs sung, awards received, conferences attended (and addressed), loss, grief, joy, achievement, triumph, defeat. I've acquired skills and knowledge. I've been places and done things.

Judging by the attitudes of my peers, it takes this long to find the sodthat button and push it with an unrepentant, if slightly arthritic forefinger.

These days, I spend most of my days dressed in overalls and safety boots. I'm usually covered in sawdust and/or paint. Quite often my face is obscured by safety goggles and a dust mask. Does my bum look big in that? Probably. Because it is big in that... and every other thing I wear. Does it age me? Almost certainly, because the sawdust will emphasise my wrinkles. I'm sure the appearance police would have a conniption.

It's all about outward appearances. We're obsessed. How old do you look? How slim do you look? Wear blocks of colour to look taller. Wear vertical stripes to look slimmer. Wear lilac eye shadow to look younger.

Surely it should be less about looking and more about being and doing?

So your outfit makes you look young, but you treat people like dirt? Is that okay? You have a tight tush but you've never helped anyone out of a tight spot. Is that cool? Your skin looks like that of a woman 15 years younger, but your cosmetics are wrecking the planet. Is that good?

I believe Roald Dahl said it very well (in The Twits):

"A person who has good thoughts cannot ever be ugly. You can have a wonky nose and a crooked mouth and a double chin and stick-out teeth, but if you have good thoughts they will shine out of your face like sunbeams and you will always look lovely."

Gaggle of middle aged women (I'm in white)

So yeah. See that gaggle of middle aged women over there? You think they look faintly ridiculous in their inappropriate outfits. You wonder if they realise that you and your friends are laughing at them. You wonder if they realise that their confidence is misplaced, after all they lost their power to turn heads at least a decade ago.

Well, eat your heart out. They've earned their stripes. They don't care that men aren't drooling over them (in fact they feel quite liberated by that fact). It's taken them fifty-plus years to reach this point and they're going to rock it. Hard.

Women's magazines are full of advice for them.

They don't give a rat's ass.

So this is why they're called turbulent times

Those who know me even a little, know that I am not great at the whole flying thing. This is something of a bummer, since - other than Mr Namasi and our two sons - my entire family lives a plane journey away. Mother, sister, nieces, nephew, sisters in law, aunts, uncles... you get the picture.

I'm actually fine, if the plane moves as if on a sheet of glass. I can even handle it if the plane moves something like a car on a tarred road. But any sign of turbulence, and I can't even pretend to be holding it together.

I have even managed to embarrass the otherwise imperturbable Mr Namasi during one particularly rough flight from Oregon, when we caught the edge of a storm that had disrupted air travel all over the US. I can't say I blame him: I was praying in tongues... at the top of my voice. And begging the crew to stop and let me off.

It's the powerlessness, you see. I mean even the pilot can't do a damned thing about the conditions. S/he just has to take us through them. Hopefully safely to the other side. We are all totally at the mercy of forces more powerful than anything we can control. If an air pocket decides to open up and suck the plane a few hundred feet earthwards...so be it. Down we go. If an updraught chooses to slam into the underside of the plane and send us upwards... up we go.

I've used the words 'decides' and 'chooses' as if the forces of nature are sentient. As if they have a will. But I think the fact that they don't makes it worse: they are implacable. They can't be reasoned with. It's not personal: they're not vindictive. They will simply do what they do - what they have always done - without a thought for our convenience, comfort or safety. No matter how much I might beg and plead for them to stop, they are without remorse.

Mr Namasi and I were comparing notes about the place we find ourselves at the moment. And it's so very much like this. I've used the word 'turbulent' to describe life and circumstance before. But today it really hit home how very much like flying through turbulence our current situation really is. We are utterly at the mercy of the circumstances in which we find ourselves.

The closure of John's company: beyond his control. The loss of my workshop: beyond my control. The impenetrability of the job market for the over 50s: beyond our control. The delays in the sale of our house: beyond our control. The factors that led to the closure of the shop where I have working: beyond my control (and pretty much beyond the control of the friend who owns the shop, too). We have some control over the rate at which our bank balance changes, but no control over the inexorable direction of that change.

Our circumstances are what they are. It's not personal. It's not like 'they' are or 'it' is out to get us. And we're being buffeted and blown hither and yon.

We're both desperate for it to stop. We're bruised, battered and exhausted. And yet it goes on. And we have no idea when - or even if - it's going to stop.

When you're flying from A to B, you have some idea of the maximum duration of the discomfort of turbulence. In roughly x hours and y minutes, the plane will land, and you can disembark and - if you feel so inclined - kiss the unspeakably unhygienic ground.

We don't have that assurance. We don't know how much longer this is going to go on. And it's the utter helplessness we find so difficult to deal with.

We have been repeatedly blessed by friends and family with gifts of evenings out, groceries, a couple of days away. I have managed to sell a few of my kreations. We are deeply appreciative of the ongoing trickle of small blessings during this turbulent patch. But we yearn desperately for smoother sky or - better yet - a handy airport. We cling to each other for support and pray... no, wait. Is it still called praying if you're alternating between pleading and throwing a tantrum? We're doing whatever that's called.

Is this flight ever going to even out? Is it ever going to land safely? Is it going to crash?

And of course, now that my thoughts have moved in that direction, I'm imagining a cold caller saying "We have reason to believe you have been injured in an accident that wasn't your fault..."

"Yes, as it happens. My metaphorical plane has crashed into the side of a metaphorical mountain. Do you offer any kind of compensation?"

When you're busy making other plans

Life. That's what happens when you're busy making other plans.

You probably know that, for the past few weeks, I've been helping a friend get a little shop up and running in Northampton.

Neither of us planned this. She had originally set up a completely different business in that space, for which she had employed a manager, and she had allowed me the use of a good sized workshop on the same premises.

I was going to use that space to make and upcycle furniture and larger items. I had a studio at home where I did smaller crafts like sewing, jewellery and so forth. Because my husband had a well-paid job in the city, I wasn't under pressure to make pots of money, and could allow things to grow organically.

Those were the plans.

Ha!

The business my friend had set up did not go well and the manager quit very quickly. I lost the use of the workshop space. My husband's company folded and he - together with his entire staff - was made redundant.

So we revised our plans.

We would sell our house and downsize. While my husband looked for a new job, we would rent and live off the proceeds from the sale of the house.

My friend would open a new shop in that space and I would work for her part time, using the rest of my time to continue working on my smaller craft items until such time as I was able to once again gain access to a workshop space. Once the shop was rolling along, she would recruit a full time staff member, and I would revert to being one of the shop's team of suppliers of goods and (in my case) services.

Then those plans were disrupted too.

The sale of our house fell at the final hurdle. My husband's job hunting has (to date) borne no fruit. My friend was diagnosed with something horrible.

So it was time for revised revised plans.

We introduced a phase 1 austerity budget (if things don't improve soon, phase 2 will have to be invoked) at home. The house went back on the market. My husband applied for jobseekers' allowance, although he continues the job search with dedication and commitment. I will work in the shop full time for the next while. My friend will work somewhere else on a part time basis and undergo a treatment programme.

In due course, we hope that the house will sell. We hope that my husband will find a job. We hope that the shop will do well enough to recruit a full time staff member. We hope that the treatment will work.

It has been a very weird time. And there is so much uncertainty surrounding us at the moment. The next few weeks could be interesting, to say the least.