Bearing Middle Age: Notes on Turning 40

I am turning 40 years old in exactly one month. There is something about this time that feels like dying. They say before you die your whole life flashes before your eyes. No one says that a painfully slowed down version of this happens right before you hit middle age. But it does. Daily I get visits from an old boyfriend, or tour an old house or apartment I’ve lived in, walking through each room in exquisite detail.

I have Birkenstock Blisters. It chafes a part of me to the core, the part of me that used to bike around New York City in heels! In fact I wore heels every day, and rarely got major blisters. Now I have sensible shoes, I never wear heels and my feet hurt in places I didn’t know they could. “Look at me! This was me! “I yell to myself when my iPhone feeds me photos from my past. Look at my body before it birthed two children, look at my marriage before it became a corporation of parenthood and house cleaning, look at my life with an amount of liberty that looks like a foreign country now.

Middle age is a scary term and before I was right on the precipice of turning 40 I wasn’t sure exactly when one turns middle age. The term is disturbing because it contains the idea of one’s death - if I’m going to die at 80 I am middle age exactly right now - but I kinda want to live till I’m 95 so I can watch my grandchildren grow up. If I do, then I’m not middle age until 47, right? I don’t want to be middle age. I don’t want to be halfway through living my life.

When I turned 30 I decided I wanted to live Upstate, I distinctly remember visiting Modell’s to get wicking hiking clothes and comfortable shoes. “I’m going to do it,” I told everyone, “buy a house and wear Old Navy and not care so much about what people think of me.” Two close girlfriends and I planned a camping trip to North South Lake to celebrate turning 30 and see the area. One of the mornings I was woken by a bear sniffing into my face through the mesh lining of our tent. I instinctively turned my head away and remained quiet while my friend whispered “is that a bear?” When he ambled on we peered out our upper tent window. It was electrifying to be so close to him. That contact with wilderness was what I yearned for as I grew in Brooklyn in my 30’s, met my wife, settled down, built businesses in Tribeca and had our son.

Bears are a potent symbol across many cultures with a theme of confidence, strength and the courage to face challenges. Since that first bear meeting and moving Upstate two years ago, I’ve been hoping to see another bear. My whole family did last year, crossing before us as we drove on Route 23, but it was too fast and protected to feed my desire. I want to see a bear alone, with time to look into his eyes while remaining safe. We have created our main growing field up on our wild-ish hill where an animal highway still runs through - we’ve noticed bear paw prints in the snow. In the evening when I’m harvesting flowers there, I hope and also fear that a bear will amble by me. If I’ve securely closed the gate, we have a chance at meeting again, through the steel mesh of the fence. I will ask him how he deals with middle age. He will snort and grunt and keep looking for the juicy blackberries that drew him to our land. And I will take his wisdom in. And keep looking for the juiciness in my life while bearing the painful and haunting realization that it is nearing high noon for me and the day soon will be starting to be more than half over. “Is it almost night time?” my son sometimes asks in the afternoon. “Well, in a way - yes” I say, “we will soon get ready for dinner and after that clean up and start getting ready for bed.” Though it is just afternoon, he can feel the day drawing more to a close, he can feel the nighttime coming. And so can I.