Over the Hill and Between the Sheets

Welcome

When I started talking to writers about contributing to Over the Hill and Between the Sheets, there were certain responses I could count on getting. "Sex…what sex?" "What would I write about?" "Believe me, nobody wants to hear about it." Laughs, jokes and self-deprecating humor. But one writer reacted in a way I never imagined. She was offended. Not because I asked her to expose her private life in print -- she'd done that plenty of times before. Or because I assumed she'd have something juicy to expose. She was upset that I thought of her at all.

"No, I won't write for your book. Frankly, I am offended that you'd consider me middle-aged," she said icily. She was 44, the same age as me.

What was I thinking?

Well, I'm pretty sure I was thinking how lucky we'd both be if this really were our halfway point. Personally, I'd be thrilled to eat cake at her 88th birthday party. That would mean that both of us had lived a full decade longer than the average American does now. But she must be shooting higher than that. Triple digits, maybe. Or eternal youth. Either way, I had to wonder: Who does she think she is?

I know that sounds snarky, but I mean it literally. Well into her fifth decade, she can't possibly see herself as young, can she? (I doubt anyone else under 50 does.) And she's light years away from being old. So what's left? By my calculations, if you're somewhere between your late 30's and getting into the movies at half price, you're middle aged. Which is just fine.

Now, don't get me wrong: I'm as shocked as the next person to find myself here. Every day I look in the mirror with equal parts horror and amazement. Do I wish that my hair was thick and my waist was thin again? Absolutely. But I can't imagine wanting to be something that I'm not. I don't want to pretend -- that's what you do when you're scared and insecure and…young. Who would buy it, anyway?

Here's how I know it's okay. Most days when the sun is shining and it's warm outside, I lower the car window and turn up the music. If I'm driving fast on the highway where none of my friends, neighbors, colleagues or students can see me, I sing along. It makes me incredibly happy. For a minute or two I feel 20. Then I feel embarrassed -- like I've been caught trying on my daughter's clothes. But that only lasts a second.

I'm middle-aged now, and I don't have to care what anyone thinks.