Fifty is NOT The New Forty

And, while we're at it, Sixty is not the New Fifty.

I had a fabulous time last weekend leading a retreat for 20 wonderful women (and one fantastic man!). At one point, I looked around the circle of middle-aged faces, radiant with love, experience, and full living, and thought: These are the gorgeous faces of 50 and 60 year old women...

So what's this craziness about Fifty being the New Forty? What cultural mishigas is it that the finest compliment we get is that our aliveness makes us seem 10 years younger? Why is growing older conflated with loss of beauty and draining away of power and delight?

Know what it makes me think of, ladies? A chocolate covered slug. Rich chocolate covering-that's right-a juicy northwest slug. Yuck.

This "Sixty is the New Fifty" line is like being offered a slug truffle by the media. And feeling complimented by it is like taking the first bite.

I appreciate the overt message, the chocolate covering: We've got more oomph than any previous generation. That tastes great.

But hey: Here comes the slug! Why is it a compliment to say that in our oomph we resemble 40 year olds? The hidden message-the slug-is that growing older is shameful, something to hide. Is the best the media can come up with is that we seem ten years younger than our birth certificates?

I don't know about you, but I don't consider that either a compliment or an accurate reflection of my own experience.

Would I like to have 40 year old skin and pain free knees, again? You bet. Would I like my breasts to migrate back north? Of course.

Would I be willing to trade the sensual comfort of the way I now inhabit my body, or the sumptuous freedom of knowing who I really am, no apologies or excuses?

No way in the world.

I had only a smidgen of this fullness and confidence ten years ago. Less wrinkles, but lots more insecurity, spending precious life energy trying to prove to that I was loveable, attractive, and successful.

Whew. I wear my luscious self out just thinking about trying that hard.

Age, for those who free of cultural fetters, is a feast. Now that's like the chocolate caramel truffle my daughter and I ate at Fran's chocolate on Sunday. Tastes great on the outside. Tastes even better after the first bite. Erotically delectable all the way down.

Ladies, the world is our oyster (or our chocolate caramel truffle). I love being in love with myself and my unfolding life. I love that I can say that outright, without shame or fear of what others may think. I love that I can say that even with the recent death of both parents, the loss of my beloved New Orleans, bursitis in my right knee, and relentlessly sagging eyelids, breasts, and belly.

I used to believe that I had to have all my ducks in a row in order to be deeply happy. Now, I don't even worry about lining the ducks up (too much like herding cats). The joy, the deeply erotic pleasure of my own almost 53 year old life is mine to be deeply grateful for, no matter what the damn ducks are up to.

Let's refuse the media's slug truffles, good as they may look on the outside.

I say to the media: Look at me. This is the face, the luminous, lined face of the New Fifty (or the new Almost Fifty Three). This is the body, the gorgeous, sagging, strong, sometimes achy body of the New Fifty. This is the life, the luscious, lit-up, sometimes painful, powerfully spiritual life of the New Fifty.

When we feast on our real-age lives, we are gifting and blessing ourselves in celebrating the truth. We are also gifting our daughters (what roles models for 50, and 60, and 70!) and sons, their children, and down the generations. Not only do we win, but our children and their children and their children win as well.

Give me caramel truffles any day...