I am a woman of many faces:
My roles define the façade you see
I conform to your reality
Never unveiling my complete identity
I parcel out my character
Offering tidbits to delight, entice
The designated consumer
Your view is obscured
Tainted, tinted, rendered incomplete
By your imagined image
Will you dare — Do you care
To shine a light on my persona
Shapeshifting like a kaleidoscope
A psychedelic palette freckled with crystal and coal
Charming and disturbing
My colors twist and turn
Once there was one who embraced my entirety
Who gazed pierced my mosaic individuality
And did not turn away
Iridescent, my soul shone for him
Enraptured, my soul captivated him
Unfiltered, I was known
What is the face you perceive
Will you — Can you — comprehend my totality
Or are you limited by necessity
Do you see
I’m not sure what possessed me — boredom, gluttony for punishment, or morbid curiosity — but I googled Women in their 50s. According to their almighty algorithms, our sense of style is up there with the People of Walmart, our bones are as brittle as October maple leaves, and we’re toting vaginas that are enticing as Death Valley.
Good God! Call Kevorkian already!
I had half expected to see the famous pair of Jennifers @50, JLo and Aniston, topping (taunting) my search and spouting how great life as a quinquagenarian can be. (Say that one 50 times fast.) Instead, the article atop the page was WebMd’s Your Body in Your 50s.
This charming slideshow describes the delightful deterioration of your health when you reach half a century. Some of these include:
Diminishing Brain Health: No need to dwell on your cognitive decline — you couldn’t concentrate on it long enough anyway. Just eat more fish swimming in olive oil and you’ll forget all about it.
Failing Mentality: Warnings of depression brought on by menopause and alcohol. Their solution, “sit less and move more.” I’ll get off the couch eventually, but I need to gulp down my wine first.
Immune System Malfunctions: Not only does your immunity weaken, but it slows to sloth-like momentum and can even “attack itself by accident.” So, the Invasion of the Body Snatchers was just an allegory for a mid-life health crisis?
Hearing Loss: Excuse me, did you say something? I couldn’t hear you over the sound of zombie T-cells gradually devouring my organs.
Vision Loss: Did you know you can no longer shift your focus easily is because your eyes “get stiffer with age?” “Hey! Eyes up here mister! Oh, you’re 50+? I’ll give you a minute.”
Menopause: Their solution for hot flashes, mood swings, and painful sex? Antidepressants, sleep, and lots o’ lube. Pharmaceuticals and Slip N Slide sheets — mandated midlife mood enhancers.
Bone Disintegration: In your 50s, your broken-down bone cells outnumber the stronger ones. You’re just one trip and fall away from being left out on the curb. Best have a P.I. attorney on speed dial.
At what age does a man stop getting hard? Yeah, I know, but it appears it’s something us horny 50s-year-olds with dehydrated vajayjays are very curious about. (If I’m understanding the math correctly — about half the men in their 50s suffer from ED.) The stiffer the eyeballs, the softer the johnson?
How do you sexually arouse a woman in menopause? Again, it looks like we are clueless (and obsessed) in this department, too. Their suggestions: Lubrication (Tip to 30-year-old self: Buy stock in Astroglide. It will come in handy. Yes, all the puns intended.), bolstering yourself with pillows (more cushion for the pushin’ against that delicate skeleton), and “going solo.” If we were experts at the last one, would we even need to ask this question?
What foods should you avoid after 50?Cut down on sugar, salts, carbs, and alcohol. Doesn’t the internet realize that a steady diet of banana bread, French fries, and cabernet is keeping me sane as I approach the last best years of my life?
What is the average weight for a 50-year-old woman? I won’t dignify that body-shaming search with the answer, but suffice it to say, I’m four pounds over. I’m tall, so it evens out. But, then again, I live in Los Angeles. I’m considered a behemoth.
The cyber search for meaning continues
Interspersed with the tales of health horrors and aging beautifully tips are the articles on reinventing, rediscovering, and reclaiming your identity. Finding the “courage and the freedom” to be your “true self.” It’s as if the first five decades of our lives didn’t amount to anything.
Did we spend all that time in hiding, waiting for the world to acknowledge our greatness? Were our personas that precarious?
I don’t know about you, but I think have done a lot in the first half of my life: I married my great love, raised two boys into adulthood, survived widowhood and breast cancer, traveled abroad, and reinvented my career more than once.
My list is not complete, and I plan on accomplishing much more. I have no doubt your lists are just as impressive.
Originally, I was going to say, “even more impressive.” I grew up believing it wasn’t ladylike for a girl to toot her own horn. That is the one thing I have realized in my 50s — I haven’t found my voice, I’m finally comfortable with using my voice. If that makes others uneasy, so be it.
There still is a long way to go equal pay/opportunity department, but we are a lucky generation. Our current role models for those in our fifties include the aforementioned Jennifers, Padma Lakshmi, and Sheryl Sandburg to name just a few. There are hundreds of vibrant, intelligent women breaking through boundaries and straddling all industries for us to chose from.
When we were young women, the 50-something role models presented to us were The Golden Girls and Queen Elizabeth — aging females with one foot presumed to be in the graveyard.
It looks like Betty White and Her Majesty had other plans.
Do not deprive me of my age. I have earned it. — May Sarton
No death, no doom, no anguish can arouse the surpassing despair which flows from a loss of identity. ― H.P. Lovecraft
To my family, friends, and acquaintances: please read the following at face value. It is not a cry for help, a play for sympathy, or a prompt to initiate bringing me back into the fold. It simply is a reflection upon the uncertainties I, along with many others, are feeling at this time.
Truth be told, I have been feeling tenuous for a while now. Many of the ideologies I have woven into my identity have become threadbare. The events of 2020 have prompted me to take stock of my mental wardrobe: Are my convictions valuable or vintage? Can they continue to spark joy or do they provoke dismay? Do they fit me any more?
The modern definition of identity was proposed by Erik Erikson as his fifth stage of psychosocial development. While our primary personality is established during adolescence, he postulated that our sense of self develops throughout our entire lifespan. Our “ego identity,” according to Erikson, is constantly being shaped by our interactions and experiences with others. A challenge to your ego identity can occur at any time, most likely when one experiences a major life stressor such as losing a loved one, loss of employment, confronting health issues, or experiencing a traumatic event such as — I don’t know — a global pandemic.
Developmental psychologist James Marcia further elaborated on Erikson’s theory. He proposed identity is based on the exploration of a variety of life domains including intimate relationships, religion, politics, and occupation. The status of your identity is either in crisis — “a time of upheaval where old values or choices are being reexamined” — or committed to a role within these domains.
Fear of commitment
Welcome to my 2020. Or should I say, 5150? Except my current detention is looking more like 72 weeks instead of hours — perhaps even longer.
Full disclosure: This is not my first identity crisis rodeo. That occurred a dozen years ago when I became a widow. I envision identity like a lasso — twisted of multiple strands and used to secure yourself to someone or some ideal. When I lost my role as a wife, I clung to the other fibers of my life for strength. I was able to keep the rope somewhat intact until recent events have caused it to further unravel.
The first thread to break loose was with my church. Don’t misunderstand me, my core faith is as strong as ever, if not stronger. It’s just the man-made constructs that have disappointed me. When I was initially widowed, there were the standard outpourings of support and they were much appreciated. But once the dust settled, things took a turn. Slowly, steadily, (and I’m sure unintentionally) I was isolated. No longer included in couples’ events, I was relegated to coffee meetups and the occasional ladies’ lunch. Dinner party invites became nonexistent. I looked into the widows’ support group, but at 44, I was significantly younger than the rest of the members. There was no place I felt I belonged — or noticed for that matter. I would sit in the pew by myself, missing my husband more than ever. Feeling lonelier each time, I eventually stopped attending.
The next thread tattered by disillusion was my political affiliation. A lifelong Republican and Californian, I will never forget the feeling of being 18, newly registered, and attending a local Ronald Reagan reelection rally. I was thrilled to see a sitting president in person and proud to cast my first presidential vote for a man I felt possessed honor and character.
I wish I could generate anywhere near the same feeling of admiration for our current candidate. When did buddying up with our adversaries become a GOP construct? Putting policies aside, I wish my president to be a person of integrity. I continued to be baffled by how many Christian leaders (and friends) can support him as a man of God. They somehow excuse or refuse to acknowledge his consistent name-calling and slander of opponents, mocking of the disabled and women, and utter lack of humility. This list can go on and on, but suffice it to say, I feel like I’m in an alternate universe where right is wrong and up is down.
So now I’m left, or rather, was left, with my occupation. I had finally settled into my dream career: travel event planning. COVID-19 not only unraveled that thread, it chopped it with an ax and seared the ends. I’m a 56-year-old woman with a convoluted resume looking to reinvent my career yet again. California has more than 2.5 million unemployed workers. How do you like those odds?
Compounding matters, I suffer from an autoimmune disorder that has flared and left me at limited capacity these past few months. I’m not sure if it’s safe for me to return to work, let alone be physically up for it. As an added bonus, my current medication has caused me to gain 20 pounds and completely altered my appearance. Not only do I not feel like myself, but I don’t even recognize the woman in the mirror.
Temporary Restraining Order or Stay of Execution?
Marcia would most likely conclude I am residing in the moratorium identity status: in the midst of a crisis but seeking alternative identities. Working through the explorations leads to a commitment or “identity achievement.” Major life events — such as the death of a spouse — can create instability which triggers a MAMA cycle: moratorium-achievement-moratorium-achievement. I went through such cycles when I lost my husband, working through the identities of the widow, single mother, and middle-aged single woman.
Healthy adults will go through many MAMA cycles in their lifetime. It’s the natural progression of aging and growth. Some may term these events as reaching a “new normal” or acceptance of whatever stressor has been thrown in their way. Here’s the thing: most will encounter one upheaval at a time. What’s one to do, as in my case (and I’m sure many others) when you doubt multiple affiliations (religion, politics) and experience more than one loss (occupation, health) simultaneously? When a global crisis has disrupted society so much you’re constantly on guard, wondering what tomorrow’s shit show will be.
Do we hide, locking the world away? Do we appeal to God or fate to give us more time to sort this all out and/or complete our penance? Is there a remedy for this dilemma? Or vaccine to prevent it from happening again?
At the end of my rope, but not alone
I may be feeling unstable, but I’m not the only one. 2020 has taken its toll on everyone. A recent government survey reported 41% of U.S. respondents felt symptoms of anxiety and depression, compared to just 11% in 2019. As the year drags on, uncertainty continues to litter our collective psyche. We try to discard it, but our dumpsters are overflowing.
In a Popular Science article discussing mental health and the pandemic, Dr. Mary Alvord, a psychologist in Rockville, Maryland, states:
Humans look to have a known universe. That is how we keep ourselves safe,” he says. “It’s frightening to feel out of control. Sadness, hopelessness, fear — those will wear you down.
I honestly don’t know if these statistics make me feel better or worse.
What I do know is a few strands of my rope have remained intact and will be no matter what my revised identity turns out to be: My two sons, who not only support but motivate me to keep it together. My parents and siblings, who continually encourage and assist in any way they can. And my posse — my closest friends — who are always available to provide a listening ear, words of wisdom, and a glass(who am I kidding — a bottle) of wine when needed. These are my lifelines.
Eventually, with some introspection, exploration, and a little luck, I’ll channel my inner Wonder Woman and reconstruct the lasso of my truth. Surprisingly, I have found a gentleman who doesn’t view me as frayed and fragile, but as a woman of substance and strength. He wants to join me on the journey to discover a more suitable church to grow our faith. From now on, I’ll let my conscience — not my political party — be my guide when voting. As for health and occupation, I will keep praying and hoping that good news is just around the corner.