In praise of age

There are, they say, only two certainties in life. Death, and taxes.
Well, I am not a fan of taxes.
Death annoys me less.
And whilst it's true I am not quite ready to face it either for myself or my loved ones, I know that when the time comes it will seem a hell of a lot less odious than forking over money to a large bureaucratic system filled with career rubber stampers.
That's how much the idea of taxation irritates me.
But age, and aging, well now there is a swimming pool sized can of worms waiting to be explored.
You see, I am of THAT age- dare I speak it's name ?
Yes I'm going to.
2009 I turned 40.
Name and shame.
I'm Middle Aged.
Not 'young adult' or ' at the beginning of an amazing adventure'.
I am- with any luck- about half way through my great journey, and I have the scars to prove it.
The reason this topic strikes me as slightly treacherous territory is because of the couple of hundred friends I have around the world who are the same age as me, some of whom appear to be either denying the existence of the passing years, or clawing onto the empties hoping to recapture something they think they once had.
These people, people I care about, people I choose to spend energy on, may read this entry today and feel slightly aggrieved by my proud declaration of ' half-way-through-ness', and be offended to be considered in the same category.
They may throw their hands up in the air- because they really DO care- and worry that if they associate themselves with someone so blatantly aging then they too may be considered part of the middle aged set.
I have some news.
You are.
But for them, for you, my dear reader, I have some words of comfort.
You are not dead.
You are here and, surviving, aging, wiser (hopefully) , smarter (perhaps) and more experienced than before.
You have made it thus far.
You are a better version of yourself than you were in your 20's because you know more stuff, have seen more things, can draw on more, have more to say for yourself, can provide more to the community.
You have been more places, tried more, failed more, lost more, won more and gained more.
You have learned to cope with more, are no longer as easily fooled as you were, are able to distinguish wheat from chaff faster, and know exactly what to do with it.
And yet you are still alive and walking around.
Still excited by things.
Intrigued and delighted by things.
Still able to feel pain, and love, and anger, and contentment.
You care and have compassion with a fuller, more developed sense of self.
Your heart still beats, your loins still stir, and in the privacy of your own bedroom, you still find certain parts of yourself sexy ( even if you now have to turn off the lights to do it).
Being middle aged is OK.
I refuse- point blank- to deny my passing years and the war wounds I have endured that make me the woman I am today.
And why the fuck should I ?
Because it is embarrassing to be getting older?
Because the present only belongs to the young?
Because some snot nosed 27 year old with a tenuous grasp of human anatomy declares that the only dress to be seen in this summer is made from strategically placed see through sequins which should be worn only with metal and leather footwear not seen since the Spanish Inquisition?
Pish to her - or worse - Him.
Pish to the fashion Nazi's and the middle aged desperado's who refuse to see the wood for the trees.
Pish to their fear of getting the run rate up on their score card.
I take a handful of vitamins everyday, and I now have more de-wrinkling face creams than a counter at a large department store.
I am not immune to wishing to be seen as attractive- although my lack of discipline in the diet department simply MUST be addressed this year, for my health if nothing else- but if I died tomorrow, I can put my hand on my heart and say that I lasted into my middle ages, and that had I not died I would have relished in everyday that took me into the wrinkly, sagging, sensuous and proud future.
A future where I may, in fact, choose to wear that see through sequined dress.
Or a burlap sack, or granny knickers, or a g-sting, or all 4 at once.
After all, one of the great advantages of no longer being considered 'young and hip' is being able to define yourself as 'old and weird'.
That is a category with MUCH more promise.
Roll on years......I feel a bout of autumnal aged eccentricity coming on.....and I want to get a good seat at the front for all my friends.