18 at 60

An essay on older women.

I am an 18-year-old girl perched on the pinnacle of 60. It is a clear view from up here. I can see so much with the clarity of height this point gives. Like climbing a tree in the forest to get one’s bearings. Sixty isn’t a wimpy little hill; it’s a peak… a mountaintop with snow but warmed with sun. The wind blows fresh and the view is fabulous.

There are aches and pains from climbing up to such a great height, but that’s to be expected. It’s a good spot and I’m amazed that I’m here. I was so busy during the climb, I hadn’t even noticed how far I’d come. It’s rather a shock in some ways. After all, I AM only a kid. I’ve still got a girl’s point of view in so many ways, but not the jaded, “cool” attitude that colors everything negatively gray. No, I’ve got the bright and hopeful, but slightly wicked grin that can only be bestowed by an 18-year-old girl who is wise beyond her years. Full of life, shouts of laughter, and gleaming anticipation.

I can see from my lofty peak, however, that the climb down may be fraught with peril. There is loss waiting for me. I can see that from here. My son has left to begin his own climb. My mother has gently reached the ground and faded into another journey. My poor old brother might fall off the mountain at too young an age because he doesn’t recognize the details of life that can be vital to survive. Men do that and widows abound at these higher levels.

I shall have minor losses, too. My teeth. I will miss those. Nouns. I already begin to fudge on the nouns and another girl (on a nearby pinnacle) told me that I need a pump up on my estrogen levels when my nouns go missing. She was right. It’s not dementia. It’s your brain without estrogen. Sharing that is a lesson in survival and we have to help one another navigate the terrain at this higher altitude.

I remember just a few years ago when all my middle school friends were learning about tampons. Those who use them without pain would huddle in the school bathroom and talk wisely of brands and insertion methods to the ones who were still on pads. Now, we talk about HRT methods. But we are still the same girls and we still lower our voices and talk wisely to the ones who have just arrived at a new obstacle.

Life really is about learning how to get around stuff that gets in the way and getting out of my own way.

I try to tell the female children about this, but I’ve discovered that they can’t hear me. Apparently, I sound like someone’s grandmother. They shrug and dismiss me as an ol’ boomer. They do not hear my 18-year-old voice. It’s a shame for I have so much to tell them. Sometimes I think we should wear t-shirts with our beautiful young faces emblazoned on the front with a caption that reads: This is the women to whom you are speaking.

If they could but hear us… There are many hardships on this mountain range and many chasms in which to fall. I could tell them which ledge is faulty and how to avoid getting into a slick sided crevasse where no one will hear them cry. I think they’ll only listen once they are trapped in the valleys and can’t get out without help. I believe that’s how I did it, but I was so busy, as I mentioned before, that I really can’t be sure. I do know I listened to some of the girls on higher peaks because I didn’t make some of the more confounding mistakes. I do wish they had shouted a little louder but, alas, that wasn’t the way they were taught.

At any rate, here I sit, glorious and proud, and it occurs to me, as I see other girls on other pinnacles, that I might have something to share with them. Many of them are sitting there focused inward. Some are crying. Some are raging. Some are curled up in little balls of sorrow. They’re missing the beauty of what they’ve accomplished! The weeping is loud. They weep for missed chances, lost youth, and sad childhoods. They get nervous at the many times they almost lost their footing and the ground they lost. And then there are the losses they can see coming as they descend down the final pathway. It’s daunting.

Hallloooo! Can you see me? I’m vigorously waving at you from my pinnacle. I’m thinking of sending up smoke signals. Because the messages you’re telling yourself, or the ones you’re getting from social media, aren’t really serving you. They make you weaker.

So, I’m here to tell you the truth. There’s nothing wrong with you. It’s normal to hurt. You aren’t a victim of Life. God doesn’t hate you. This is how life works. Shit happens to us. Of course it hurts. Especially after climbing a mountain that took 60 (or MORE) years to scale. You’ve been exposed to the elements. You’ve been burned by years of relentless heat and you’ve been frost bitten by the deep freezes. The wind has torn at you and tried to push you in all different directions. You’ve come close to the edge several times. A couple of times, you thought about just taking a flying leap.

But you didn’t. You kept going. You overcame it all. And now…look at that view! You’ve grown strong. You’ve gain a peaceful serenity. You’ve accomplished a lot! You retain your delighted laughter and yet you gained a wisdom you’d never have known in your girlhood. Our culture is focused on youth so they don’t know your value and they can’t tell you about your value.

Our culture is stupid.

It’s up to us to shout loud enough to be heard from these peaks. I think it’s more important now than at any other time in history. So… Get in those young faces. Be heard. Show what you know but, please, stop acting like a wounded ol’ goat. Quit the old lady pity parties. You are a rock star on a mountain top, baby! You’re up there where the thunder is born. You might as well have fun. You’ve earned a big dose of fun so don’t forget to get naughty and cuss like banshee or giggle like a fayrie. Above all, be the wise women you have climbed to become. Wave at that other woman on her mountain. Remind her she’s not alone.

Tell your story.

Even the hard parts.