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aging, Guest Posts, parents

Trapped Out of Love

April 6, 2018

By Martina E Faulkner

I always think it will get easier.
And I’m always wrong.
Every time.

 It’s not easier over time, it’s more numb. Consistency and frequency only served to create an existential morphine-like balm to the frayed nerve endings of emotions swirling through my body and brain.

 And now, when there are gaps in time, the nerves become more sensitive, just like withdrawal. Only, the solution is not more ‘heroin’… the solution is recognizing the inescapable truth that it doesn’t get better from here.

 And even that, I’m afraid, is no solution at all.

I wrote those words yesterday as I sat in my car, throat choked up and dry cheeks. No tears would fall, even though they were there. They were dammed up inside me, bottle-necked… stuck. Trapped might be another word for it. My tears were trapped, just as I have been, as I have felt. Continue Reading…

aging, Guest Posts

Frozen

March 4, 2018
freeze

By Stella O’Leary

In your forties, it’s either freeze your face or freeze your eggs. If you’re financially astute, both. But what is in our best interest? Is tricking your face into the visage of a younger you while scooping your reproductive material into a little egg hotel the greatest thing? Or are they in fact, working in conjunction against each other? If we had accepted our age, would we be making more ‘appropriate’ choices? Or is this a culture that suggests we should all be tens with careers, and babies. (No worries!) An impossible line of bullshit.

I have put off fillers. I have put off egg freezing. Last week my commercial agent asked if I would go in for ‘a union job that shoots in Uruguay. Must be willing to have botox injections. In Uruguay.’ I passed. The next day they emailed again- was I passing because schedule conflict or botox? Now trust, I’m a writer who dabbles, not an in demand actress. The commercials I have booked have always surprised me. Girl on a date, girl fighting with boyfriend at diner, girl making vows on a water fountain. Mostly in life, I am girl in overalls writing in coffeeshops.  Then my mother called, and offered some egg freezing. Because despite my protestations, I am not girl, I am woman. On good days, with rose oil and sunglasses, I may trick you into see a maiden, but I’m full mother stage (despite not having established who father is gonna be.) So at the offer of eggs money, I perked up like a thirsty iris. Continue Reading…

aging, Guest Posts

Thirty-Three

November 26, 2017
thirty

By Tatyana Sussex

The perfect age, you decide, when a colleague confides, “Yeah, it’s a bit late to marry at thirty-three, but you know, I’ve had time to myself, to build my career—it’s worked out well.” And just like that: You claim thirty-three as the perfect age for you to marry, too.

Instead, thirty-three is the age you permanently leave New York—the second time, after the second relationship ends, and you’re still mourning the first. You make a pledge to a new adventure: to grow roots, right here, in your hometown of Seattle.

Thirty-three, the birthday on which you wake up to a carpet of snow, stay home from work and talk to the lingering ex-boyfriend about his new daughter, his wife, then go out for a dinner of ribbon pasta and braised rabbit at a romantic restaurant with your best girlfriend, Mary Jane. Your parents call in a bottle of champagne.

The last birthday you will drink champagne: November 19, 1996.

This is the year you run into the bewildering streets to worship the Comet Hale-Bopp that sparkles overhead like a winking god. The year you and Jeanette go roller blading on the Burke Gillman trail one dusky evening and are stopped in your tracks by an unexpected eclipse yolking right there, just for you. Continue Reading…

aging, Guest Posts

Forever Stardust

November 24, 2017
stardust

By Mary McLaurine

I just celebrated my 62nd birthday with my two kids. We had a grand time and I soaked up their compliments on how great I look for my age. They say the fact that my scalp hasn’t sprung a sprout of gray is testament to my staunch belief that age is merely a chronological number.

As I lean in to blow out the nine candles donning my decadent Chocolate Mousse Cake, one for each decade, two for each year in it, and one for good luck, I’m momentarily transported back to birthdays past and wonder if these boys will ever know the wild and carefree girl still residing inside me. Looking at them through the same sapphire-blue eyes I used to bewitch bashful boys, I’m filled with gratitude for their love, happy this girl grew up to be their mother.

I’m a fire sign, a Leo, a lioness: fierce, wild, nocturnal and willing to fight to the death to protect them. This they know of their mother. But what about before I was their mother? Do they ever wonder who I used to be? Continue Reading…

aging, Guest Posts

Grief Is Not Always About Death

January 22, 2017
senior

By Marlene Adelstein

We were about to renovate our bathroom, a total gut job, so in preparation, I began to empty out the vanity. Into the garbage went wands of gloppy mascara, old lipstick stubs, and ancient condom packages. In the back of one drawer, I found a blue cardboard box that I hadn’t touched in a while and I felt a surprising surge of wistfulness. It was a box of tampons, for God’s sake, and I was teary-eyed! It had been well over a year since I’d reached for it which meant…I had officially gone through menopause.

No, of course, I didn’t miss the inconvenience, the cramps, the bloating. Those unpleasant feelings had been replaced, first with perimenopausal, and then menopausal symptoms like night sweats, moodiness, weight gain. My bible on all things menopause, herbalist Susun Weed’s book, Menopausal Years, The Wise Woman Way, called it time of the Crone, which did not sound sexy at all, despite her encouraging words to embrace the change. Even though my longtime boyfriend still told me I was sexy, I wasn’t feeling it. What was it about the blue box that created a jumble of emotions? I wasn’t ready to figure it out so I left the damn box in the drawer.

The next week I had my annual gynecological exam, and my doctor, a no-nonsense woman looked up at me from between the stirrups and said, “Your vagina is pale.” Continue Reading…