Consolations of Middle Age

his past June I attended my daughter’s high school graduation. Observing the wrinkles, gray hair, and softening jawlines of the other parents, I concluded that most people weren’t aging well. A few mothers, hoping to escape these indignities, had been victims of aggressive plastic surgeons, but on the whole, everyone just looked middle-aged. At home that evening I asked my husband, expecting a flattering or reassuring answer, whether we could possibly look as old as those parents. He replied, “No, Elizabeth. We look older than they do.”

The generations slip by in a steady course as we progress from early to late middle age and eventually, if we are lucky, into old age.

But it doesn’t go quite as smoothly as that. Every year brings some fresh intimation of mortality—a loss, a decline in capabilities, the death of a mentor or loved one. And each personal loss brings a welter of emotions. I distinctly remember an instance, not so long ago, when the person I lost was exactly the age I am today. Yet now, when I look at my hands or my neck, or observe that I look increasingly like my parents, I am forced to admit that I am far past twenty or even forty: I am squarely middle-aged. And I have wondered how to think about this undeniable fact.

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