When it Comes to Women in Their 50s, Google is Shamefully Wrong

Apparently, we are dowdy, decrepit, and hard up.

Image by Gordon Johnson from Pixabay

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.

The odds of finding useful information are 50–50

I love going down a research rabbit hole, so I’m always game for the other topics the learned browser might suggest. In their “People also search for” box, they list Goals for a 50-year-old woman, Things to do when you turn 50 years old, and Finding purpose in life after 50. Looks like Google supposes that without their guidance, we are all wandering around apathetic, lethargic, and aimlessly waiting for the inevitable dementia diagnosis.

The People also ask section also lists these popular queries:

  • What should a woman in her 50s wear? According to AARP — Dark denim, more dark denim, and cardigans. So, Mr. Rogers on a casual Friday, got it.
  • What should you not wear in your 50s? Old fashioned skirts, fleece, and loud makeup. No Caroline Ingalls/Nike/Tammy Faye Bakker ensembles — understood.
  • 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.

Mid-21st-Century Modern

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


This post originally appeared in P.S. I Love You @Medium.com

Hope’s Revival

Image by RÜŞTÜ BOZKUŞ from Pixabay

Sadness slithers within your psyche
hissing gossip of false consolations
With cynical sympathy, he whispers persuasions
promising solace in isolation

Lulled by the illusion of tranquility
It’s easy to trust the ease of his eulogy
nestle into his assurance of serenity
and acquiesce to dismay

But, there is no peace in his offering
He leads astray — betrays
those who fall prey to his treachery



A rose-blushed horizon beckons
ushering relief for the weary
Foreshadowing beatitudes’ bliss
the ombre oasis glistens

No leisurely endeavor
the decision — the revision— to hope
To travail, prevail over adversity
Unveil your grace and regale in its glory

Be wary, he will try to tarry your journey
Dispel your desire, repel your joy
Cloak your comfort in delusions
Badgering valor with scheming daggers



Ye of wee faith
Will you at last awake from your hibernation
Listen to the inspiration presiding
already residing in your soul


Originally published in P.S. I Love You @Medium.com

Tribulation

A poet’s plight

Image by Stefan Keller from Pixabay

Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words. — Robert Frost

Tormented by prose,
there is no repose until composed
Stowaway brainchildren shoplifting daydreams
pilfering notions and whims
Tinkering with mental trinkets to keep themselves amused

Fractured figments infiltrate slumber
Tirelessly inscribing, reciting
depriving sleep
Nocturnal visions usurped by urgent soliloquies

Desperation demands, commands
purging the pangs fermenting my soul
Bloodthirsty, I breach, leach
the clamors tearing my heart asunder

Revelations outcry, testify so that I
may be shanghaied from my purgatory

Visceral scripts cast off clouds of gloom
until there is no longer any room for agony or anger
Allowing me to breathe, bathe
under sun-soaked lapis skies
where tears have ceased to linger

And sometimes — in due time
I bide my time
while inspirations ignite and speculations spark
lighting fire to introspection

Librettos written
Choral hymns sung
Declaring sacred secrets
and contemptuous contemplations

Harmonious musings
Discordant discourse
Communally coexist
Live together
Lie together
Symbiotic scribbles
Sprawled, scrawled
Laid down on the page
Relinquished to the reader
for final judgment


Originally published on iPoetry @Medium.com

Looking for Love? Maybe You Need to Change Your Point of View

What you find is up to you

Photo by Samantha Gades on Unsplash

Tucked in the upper right corner of my garage rafters lies a box containing an enormous vase. It has earned that spot because it is simply too large for any indoor closet. Scarlet and urn-shaped (an omen, perhaps?) it was a gift from my late husband on a bygone Valentine’s Day. He promised to fill it with roses each year after that. He made it to three.

Guiding like a beacon, it is the first thing I notice when pulling into my home. Sometimes, all I observe is the tattered, dusty edges of the box — how empty that picture of the crimson glass vessel appears. Most of the time, however, I recognize it as it truly is: A loving cup brimming with memories. It all depends on my point of view.


Now here I am, a dozen Valentines since my husband’s passing, without a holiday mandated significant other. Lavish bouquets will not be exhibited on my Facebook feed. No one is sending me sweet love notes this year.

But here’s the kicker — I am teeming with loves just as significant, if not more so, than the adoration of a spouse or partner. And, I bet, my fellow non-plus-oners, you are, too. You just have to recognize them and, most importantly, resolve to take heed of their beauty.

Only in the eyes of love can you find infinity
-Sorin Cerin

The Greeks defined eight types of love. Why eight? I’d like to think it’s because eight is the number of infinity. Universal love can’t be comprehended in a single construct.

My favorite synopsis of this Grecian octet is a blog post on the FTD website. I know, cheesy, but good content is good content. Plus, this is a Valentine’s piece, so what the heck.

Here they are, with a little commentary thrown in:

  • Philia: Brotherly Love. Kindred Spirits. The kind of person who understands that pineapple has no business being anywhere near a pizza, but completely understands why ketchup on tacos is the bomb.
  • Pragma: Enduring, mature love. A cultivated, shared history that has withstood the tests of time.
  • Storge: Natural, instinctual love. The instant love a parent has for their child or the immediate affection felt between childhood friends. BFs forever and all that.
  • Eros: Romantic, physical love. Hot, sultry hormones pulsating. Bounding with lustful energy. Soft caresses leading to wild abandon. Whew! Ok, I digress… Get a grip woman!
  • Ludos: Playful, flirty love. Infatuation. Frisky behavior that makes everyone else in the room gag just a bit.
  • Mania: Obsessive love. Jealous and possessive. Sheer madness.
  • Philautia: Self-compassion. Revering, accepting, and honoring yourself. Choosing love that builds you up.
  • Agape: Selfless love. Putting others above yourself. Recognizing and respecting the humanity in all of us. Sadly, there hasn’t been much of this going around as of late.

“To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow.”
-Audrey Hepburn

The Greeks never intended for these loves to be mutually exclusive. Like features in a luxurious landscape, they are to be planted together; complementing and highlighting what is sown alongside.

Love is never monochromatic. It can be dappled with a few complementary hues or bursting with psychedelic shades. Your preferences, your environment, help to select the flora.

So Cupid be damned! This Valentine’s I am going to shift my focus to the loves that presently adorn my life, instead of longing for those of seasons past. Like any landscape artist, I am working with the abundance of botanicals presented to me. Hopefully, you find it as breathtaking as I do.

But first, the fertilizer

Ever since my husband’s original cancer diagnosis (on the eve of 9/11 — another omen), one could say my life has been a reoccurring shit show. An endless carnival of freak occurrences and rarities that would amaze even Ripley.

Contrary to the old adage, my shit does stink. Big chunks of putrid stank bobbing in a viscous cesspool. That aroma, believe it or not, is peculiarly intoxicating and addictive. The compulsion to anoint oneself with sorrow’s perfume overwhelming.

But, to my surprise, it is within these piles that my loves have sprouted. Instead of prompting repulsion, these predicaments have fertilized my blessings. They laid the groundwork for my bountiful garden.

Mia famiglia: Storge-Agape-Philia

I used to take for granted my strong, extended family. I’m sure it’s partly due to my Italian heritage, but, to me, it was a given that everyone had one. Only recently, have I recognized my privilege.

My family is voracious in their appetite to make it all better and I admit, I lap up every morsel of their compassion. There is my mother, who bursts in with a month’s worth of homemade ragu and biscotti; her arms laden with bags of herbals and vitamins. Whether the ailment is physical or emotional, she has a supplement for it.

Her maternal might set to 11, my mother will nestle in for days or sometimes weeks to tend to her firstborn. Three square meals a day (always organic) her manna from heaven.

My father, in turn, will drive to the ends of the earth — and Costco — to gather provisions. Tucked within his bags of supplies will invariably be a surprise luxury item (jumbo shrimp, baby lamb chops, juicy rib-eyes) that he and I both adore. It’s a wink and a silent, “I’ve got you covered, honey,” that rings loud and clear in my heart.

Each of my siblings is steadfast as a succulent. A variegated array of devotion, their loyalty never waivers.

Then there is my cousin, who has made it his mission to make me feel attractive even though lately I feel about as appealing as a corpse lily. I know he is at the ready to beat down any dude he feels has done me wrong.

Treasured old friends: Philia-Pragma-Storge

Fortune smiled upon me when it granted me a fellowship of life-long friends. Most budded in elementary school with one germinating in our infancy. Beloved companions for 50 years, they are my roots. We have grown, matured, and endured alongside each other like a redwood forest.

We have experienced the trials and joys of all that life has to offer from youthful shenanigans to the frolics of middle age. Boyfriends, careers, marriages, and births have been our summer solstice. The biting frost of illness and death’s devastation our frigid winters. We have a symbiotic history that grounds and nourishes us. They know and cherish me to my core.

The Posse: Philia-Philautia-Agape

My posse, along with their spouses and children, is my trellis — my backbone. Interwoven with strength and radiance, this sisterhood+ rallies like a fire brigade as soon as a distress call pings our group text. Ever ready for the rescue, they’ve arrived within minutes whenever I needed a lift to an appointment, a toilet unclogged, or gallons of libations to drown my sorrows.

These families have cheered on my children, coaching and stepping in as surrogate parents when my capacity was waning. Even more glorious, they have always included me in their social gatherings. I’m not weeded out as the solo attendee or tolerated as the pity invite. Within this lattice, I am welcomed.

The greenery

No landscape is complete without a bit of foliage providing an anchor or a touch of flourish. There is the former coworker who has become a dear companion and priceless dispenser of wisdom, the countless clients who unknowingly offered inspiration when I was desperate for validation, and, of course, my two sons who supply me with abounding purpose, pride, and hope.

“There are always flowers for those who want to see them.” –Henri Matisse

I’ll admit, I still pine for a season of roses. It’s easier to be content with discontent. When the next storm arrives, I have no doubt I’ll find myself, once again, slathering sadness like a warm blanket.

But when that happens, I am equally assured that one of my loves will sprout anew and tenderly wipe the tears from my eyes. My focus cleared, I’ll soon notice the grandeur blossoming around me.

So what is blooming in your garden? Which of the eight loves decorate your landscape? Are you dazzled by their brilliance? Or are you struggling to see splendor amidst some desolation? Are you basking in a verdant meadow or shriveling in a barren desert?

The view is up to you.


Orginally featured in P.S. I Love You @ Medium.com

Damming Love

Photo by Garon Piceli from Pexels

We shared a lifetime
a lifetime ago

Flawed, yet unbroken
Beautifully blemished
Burnished to a luster
reflecting devotion

Eager archaeologists
we examined tenderly
Ardently unearthing
our unique treasures

Intimately excavating
Discovering
Learning
until love was clairvoyant

We knew Us
by heart

Youthful — Innocent
We had commenced
only to be aged
beyond our years

Invaded — Tormented
Cancer corrupted
Our perfect union
prematurely extinct

Nearly a decade required
to cast aside mourning
Shed my shroud
Discard my armor

Unaware of my naiveté
I auctioned my affections
Inept as an ingenue
Headed for slaughter

At first, I sought
lightening in a bottle
but flashy liaisons
promptly implode

Still desperately seeking
I mistook
desire for romance
Fleeting attention
for adoration

I settled for inadequacy
Forged perfection
Alluring courtships
proved to be counterfeit

Am I greedy?
A relationship glutton
trying to echo
our marital harmony?

Or am I an addict?
Craving the fix
of holding someone dear?

Earnestly yearning
to be cherished once more

Now a wary skeptic
disquiet compels retreat
to lick my wounds
Safeguard my heart

But my soul pours out
The floodgates have opened
How does one dam (damn?)
the desire to love?


Originally published in P.S. I Love You @Medium.com