Reflections
of a With-It Middle Aged Mom
By
Barbara Woods Collins
Middle age is the time in a person's life when wanted
and unwanted body hair exchange growth patterns. It is a
time when clothes shrink with every cleaning, and women
all over the civilized world fight a daily battle with a
pair of pantyhose. The body wages war with time, which
seeks to alter the familiar form into something
unrecognizable.
Middle age is not subtle, as I always thought it would
be. It is just as likely to sneak in with the darkness
and greet you at your first morning glimpse into the
mirror. Your mother stares back at you. She even wears
that familiar scowl that you always assumed meant she
knew what you did last night. Now you wonder whether this
expression had merely attached itself to her face for the
period of her middle years.
Middle age can present itself in other ways. Your
wonderful children stare at your picture in the college
yearbook--the one whose caption reads "…will
write a Pulitzer Prize winning novel, star in a Broadway
musical, and alleviate poverty worldwide with her
millions." They innocently comment, "That's
you?!?" You suddenly feel very old.
The middle years also play tricks with your thinking.
It is easy to become trapped in a time warp--to forget
that the Sixties are gone, that Yuppies have replaced
Hippies, that BMW's and condos with hot tubs have become
the American Dream. The more I move into Middle Age, the
more violent is the thrust backward in time. Yesterday
becomes today once more; I feel the need for Auld Lang
Syne. Memories become sweet, friends from pre-yuppie
times even sweeter.
My teenage children have labeled me a "with-it"
mom. I assume this means that I attempt to understand the
divergent dress codes and philosophies of groups as
varying as "Hard Cores", "Mods",
"Surfers", "Punks", "Nerds",
"Goths", "Bops", "Jocks",
"Headbangers" and even "Greasers". I
no longer cringe at the sight of green spiked hair or
skull and crossbones on their way to the prom, because I
feel confident that this same green-haired creature will
soon shed his skull and crossbones for GQ, BMW and condo.
(Why does this frighten me?)
Being "with it," however, has not slowed
down the aging process. I still prefer Hippies to
Yuppies, and tolerate doctors only if they have passed a
reasonable age of maturity. I refuse to listen to advice
from a doctor who still has acne and who warns me of
things that happen to people "at your age".
With Middle Age comes a crisis. Some men handle this
crisis by seeking the affection of younger women, by
buying a sports car, shedding the corporate image, by
buying a toupee and some nose hair clippers. A woman
might seek liberation from the non-identity of being Mrs.
Middle Class Suburbia, might mourn for wasted years,
might spend the children's college tuition on cosmetic
surgery, liposuction and psychotherapy. (She can borrow
her husband's nose hair clippers.)
I'm told that this is a critical time in my life--every
bit as inevitable in the span of years as Terrible Twos
and Tormented Teens. It comes…It goes…Time
moves on. It is a transition period, they say. It should
be a productive time, they add.
The trick to surviving this "transition," I
suppose, is in looking forward instead of backward. If
anything can be recaptured from my youth, let it be the
idealism and energy of a time when peace and freedom,
racial equality, and the alleviation of world hunger
might at least vie for billing with BMW's, condos and
nasal hair extractors.
So what if I went to sleep in the Sixties and awoke to
ROMS, RAMS, CDs, BITS, BYTES, MIS, MBAs and Yuppies. If
the Hard-cores, Mods, Punks, Jocks, Goths, Bops, Surfers,
Headbangers, Greasers and Nerds--the green-haired
creatures with the skull and crossbones and seven
earrings can meet this challenge, then shouldn't I be
able to?
I join you, my young friends, with whatever years I
have left, to meet the challenge of the future. The world
belongs to all of us--the idealistic leftovers from the
60's and the sometimes outrageous, all-too-pessimistic,
sterling-quality young people. Perhaps we have more in
common than you think. We are both in a period of
transition. The only real difference is that your bodies
are cooperating. Learn from me; but, at the same time,
teach me what you know. I will accept you however you
grow up (even in a BMW), if you will accept me however I
grow old.
Deal?
1988
Copyright 2002 Barbara Woods Collins
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