Fifty and Other F-Words

by Margot Potter

  It goes something like this . . .

  Drive to the Home Goods strip mall parking lot, and find a space that requires me to walk a little bit. I have a potent combination of crafter’s and writer’s butt, and I’m making small efforts to combat the further spread of my posterior. Grab oversized cart, muttering out loud to no one in particular that these carts are too freaking big. Steer oversized cart with obstinate wheels through undersized aisles. Wait impatiently for other shoppers to peruse the variety of items on the shelves while blockading aisle with oversized shopping carts. Mutter to self that people are rude.

  Meander through the aisles in search of . . . je ne sais quoi. Begin to notice a frightening pattern. You are one of dozens of women over 50 in the store, with similarly glazed expressions, also searching for something. Realize that what you are trying to find isn’t on a shelf. It’s not in a box. It isn’t tucked into a basket. What you are trying to find is a sense of purpose. What you are looking for is your mojo, which is most definitely not hiding under a decorative pillow at Home Goods. Fuck nuggets, how did that happen?

  Still, this box of note cards that says “Hello, gorgeous” is oddly compelling. Toss cards into cart. This faux fur throw pillow just might be the solution to your dog hair problem! Yes! That globe, look at that globe! It’s fabulous, isn’t it? Shrugs from another shopper in aisle. Oh, maybe it’s not that fabulous. Walk away, turn around to see that sneaky shopper sneaking globe into her cart. Feel a sense of deep loss at not scoring that fabulous globe.

  Make your way to the shockingly long checkout line and peruse the impulse items on the shelves lining the aisle. Toss gummy raspberries into cart, seriously contemplate the need for candy-coated pumpkin seeds. Chat with other ladies in line amicably, except for that bitch who snagged your globe. She’s dead to you. Give her meaningful side-eye glances.

  Pay for your bag full of empty promises, shuffle back to your car. Feel an instant and insistent sense of ennui. Realize that you don’t even like this stuff you just bought. Consider returning it for a moment, but decide it’s not worth waiting in line and risking buying more stuff you don’t need.

  I discovered that we smart, independent, capable women over 50 are looking for something vital, something that makes us feel relevant. And though we’re not sure, we think it might possibly be found on the shelves of a discount department store. Perhaps it’s the notion that if we find the right combination of things our empty house will feel like a home again—or maybe we’re trying to fill up the empty spaces in our hearts with enough knickknacks to make the pain go away.

  At some point you have to fill up the empty spaces with new experiences, not new stuff. That means getting up off your sassy ass, wiping those tears away, and marching bravely forward into your future. Or, start the car and head to Target®, because maybe that’s where your mojo is.

  Oh, Hello, It’s You Again

  My husband and I are still adjusting to being together all day several days a week. We both work from home when my husband isn’t out of town for work. When our daughter was here, she served as our buffer. Now that our buffer is gone, it’s just us.

  Oh, hello, it’s you again.

  I’m loud. I’m annoying. I talk to myself. I make up songs and sing them loudly and repeatedly. I curse at my computer and inanimate objects as if I suffer from Tourette syndrome. I don’t suffer from Tourette syndrome, but I may have a previously undiagnosed condition I’ve dubbed Rampant Potty Mouth syndrome. I’m setting up a charity, your contributions are deeply appreciated. Fuck yeah, let’s do this!

  My husband has the patience of a saint, but even saints have limits. The prevailing wisdom regarding Empty Nesters is that it is a time for couples to reconnect and explore their relationship without their children.

  Last week, we were in the car driving to the grocery store and my husband said, “I just figured out what’s wrong.” “What is it?” I asked. “I miss our kid,” he said, with a deep sigh.

  Yeah, me too.

  My first frenzied response to surviving the Empty Nest syndrome was to start a blog called Cocktails Cupcakes Crafts. I made plans for my husband and me to visit local makers of said aforementioned “C” words. So far, we’ve visited an artisanal alcohol distillery and a French bakery. My husband is not keen on further explorations, as the first two cost us just under $100. I’ve been crafting up crazy cocktails and baking all manner of decadent desserts. I’ve stocked up the cupboards and fridge with flour, sugar, chocolate chips, key limes, Meyer lemons, heavy cream, and a variety of sprinkles and colored sugars. Though my aforementioned oversized posterior is a serious concern, I figured I’d roll with it. Life is short, eat dessert. That’s the new mantra.

  Well, it was the new mantra, until we were at the grocery store last week. My husband announced matter-of-factly that he’s considering giving up alcohol, carbohydrates, and sugar.

  God help me.

  Upon further reflection and after regaining the 10 pounds I had recently lost, I decided that the blog sounded much better on paper than it did in reality. It was just another thing that demanded attention, perfection, and time. Sure, making cocktails, cupcakes, and crafts was fun, but not when it was compulsory, a daily directive that was, in the end, just another distraction. I dialed it back a little, and now I only make cocktails, cupcakes, and crafts when the mood strikes. Much better!

  We’re still finding our sea legs on this new adventure together, redefining who we are and who we are to one another. My husband travels for work when he isn’t working from home. We’re suddenly apart more than we’ve ever been before, and it’s been a challenge for both of us. It has not been as difficult for him, and that’s been difficult for me. I’ve had to pull him away from a tendency to turn inward, ask him to focus outward a little more. I’ve also had to pull myself away from a tendency to focus outward, and turn inward to find out who this new me is and what makes her excited to get up every day. We’re rediscovering ourselves and each other, remembering who we were before we were parents, charting new territory, together, again.

  Oh, hello, it’s you again! Hooray!

  Things to Do

  Looking for things to do now that the kids are gone? Fret not—we’ve got you covered!

  • Kids left home? Feeling lonely? Stalk them on social media! It’s easy and fun! Don’t bother with Facebook, they’re not there. Get a Snapchat account and give yourself a mysterious code name like StalkMuch or NotYourMom. They’ll never guess it’s you.

  • Use your free time to devise new ways to make your child feel guilty for not keeping in touch. Emails! Tweets! Texts! Facebook Posts! Instagram photos with captions like “Wish you were here, but you’re not and you never call. #sadface.” and “Contact me if you see this child. #lonelymom.”

  • Turn their old toys into complex sculptures and sell them at your local modern art gallery. Give them serious names like “Crap my kids broke 10 minutes after they opened it” and “This is where my money went” or “Sharp things I peeled off the bottom of my feet.”

  • Rent their room on Airbnb®.

  • Take up yoga. Re-envision your kid’s room as a serene escape from the frenzy of daily existence. Decorate it with vaguely Asian-influenced artifacts. Realize that yoga looks exhausting after watching a series of yoga videos. Re-envision your yoga studio as a cocktail lounge. Pour yourself some vodka and smile serenely while chanting, “Om, yes I like this drink.”

  • Convince your spouse to join you on misbegotten adventures while doing research for your new blog. Call it something kicky like Xanax® and Birkenstock® or Desperately Seeking My Jawline.

  • Take up nudism. Scare the shit out of the UPS guy when you forget to grab your robe before answering the door. Wave goodbye serenely while sipping your vodka. Your work is done here.

  Sexy Time

  Suzanne Somers wrote a book a few years back called The Sexy Years. She is a proponent of hormone replacement therapy. She claims it will restore your youth and your li
bido. If I could afford it, I’d gladly give it a whirl. My libido disappeared about the same time that Auntie Flo took off for parts unknown and my happacity hit the shitter.

  This is me being really real, folks. We’re letting it all hang out here. Oh where, oh were has my libido gone? Oh where, oh where could it be? If you see it, please direct it to my lady parts. Thanks.

  When I pitched this book you are reading, I initially had an entire chapter slated for discussing sex after 50. As you can see, I don’t have a chapter’s worth of thoughts on that topic. Forgive me. Lots of ladies have lots of sex after 50, so please don’t despair. I’m just one lady. I’m not the only lady not feeling the tingle in her nether regions after 50, but that’s okay. You don’t have to give up! Get some of that yam cream and get on with it, girl!

  The loss of my libido has also made me feel less excited about the constant onslaught of soft porn on cable TV shows. Good God, I’m becoming a prude. Or am I? Is it just me? I feel like the sex in these shows is so graphic, so banal, so rudimentary, and more than occasionally violent and lacking in romance. The shock value is lost, because it’s not shocking anymore. Let’s be honest: Real sex is not pretty. I know people do it, but I don’t wish to observe.

  It’s hard to feel sexy when the prevailing narrative strongly implies that you are no longer sexually appealing. Not that I’m blaming the narrative, mind you, but it isn’t helping the story line. As I’ve mentioned before, biologically speaking, my need to procreate is no longer primal. My need to be touched, caressed, cherished is still there. It’s just not being met with affirmative action from my hormones.

  I can’t offer advice on sex after 50, since I am not having much of it. If feeling sexy after 50 is important to you, then make it your mission to figure it out. Now that my daughter is away and my husband and I are home alone, perhaps we will figure it out, too. Meantime, the irony of finally having the freedom to be sexy whenever we please coinciding with the unceremonious departure of desire is not lost on me, much the way the ability to sleep in has been countered with my circadian clock chiming a 6:30 a.m. wake-up call each morning. There is a lot of irony in aging, isn’t there?

  All hope is not lost. We still have love and laughter and friendship—and passion that has not gone forever; it’s just on hiatus. Our sexy time will come again. Pun intended. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge.

  Come on, ladies, we have to laugh at this shit or we’ll cry.

  Over 50 and Unemployed

  I like to reinvent myself every 10 years or so. This is my story, and I’m sticking with it. I’ve also been telling myself for years that I’m a late bloomer. This is how I have made myself feel better about not quite having reached the brass ring of success. It’s called delusion. It’s a handy way to increase your happacity. The goal for late blooming was 50. Therefore, at 55, I’m a few years behind schedule. I’m going to go ahead and push that back to 70.

  That feels much better. I can feel my happacity increasing exponentially.

  The past seven years, as I approached and then crossed over into my 50s, have been filled with painful lessons in self-belief and tenacity. After what would best be described as my year from hell, and the PTSD that followed, one seemingly fabulous opportunity after another has appeared and disappeared like a pea in a frustrating shell game.

  I feel like a river stone. The excess has been worn away. The essence is being revealed.

  It used to be that people had a career for a lifetime, working for the same company until retirement. I have never followed that career path, and many people I know who did found themselves shocked and unemployed when the economy tanked and jobs started moving overseas. Then tech boomed and age and experience were considered liabilities. It’s an interesting time to be over 50, and it gets more interesting as time marches forward. By interesting I mean challenging and fraught with peril. I’m convinced that the best way to survive and thrive professionally after 50 is to work for yourself. Multiple income streams will help keep you from becoming dependent on only one source of income and therefore put you in less jeopardy of ruin if that one source disappears. I don’t see myself retiring, at least not in the usual sense. I like working, feeling productive, doing things every day. It gives my life purpose. I also like having enough money to pay the bills, and since a series of professional missteps and time out of the full-time workforce have led me to a place where I have no significant nest egg, I’m going to have to keep working until I save up enough money to do otherwise, and I’m okay with that.

  While I was researching this book, I found a disturbing number of articles on the same topic—the employment trends for women over 50. If you are a woman over 50 seeking work, I have some bad news for you. The prevailing wisdom says that many women over 50 have “spotty work experience” because they have spent too many years out of the workforce raising children. I think this is a crock of doody. Being a stay-at-home mom is one of the hardest jobs on the planet. How absurd to think that mothers are not employable—they have a litany of skills! I would argue that they’re far better equipped to handle the demands of today’s workforce than most, due to the variety of challenges they’ve faced raising children. I think we should get more creative about our resumes.

  Code Words for Former Stay-at-Home, or Work-from-Home, Mom Skills

  • Spent years driving children around? Chauffeur and/or Race Car Driver

  • Helped with homework? Tutor

  • Scheduled endless appointments and wrangled lessons, practices, performances, and play dates? Personal Assistant

  • Navigated the complexities of toddler logic? Child Psychologist

  • Entertained children after an endless chorus of “I’M BORED”? Cruise Director

  • Decorated your home on a budget? Lifestyle Expert

  • Whipped up enough meals for picky eaters to feed the population of a midsize country? Master Chef

  • Endured teacher conferences, visits to the principal’s office, and PTA meetings? Hostage Negotiator

  • Brokered complex peace treaties between screaming siblings? Secretary of State

  • Mastered the art of the last-minute science project? Chief Creative Officer

  • Consistently balanced the household budget? Chief Financial Officer

  • Been a Stay-at- or Work-from-Home Mother for over 20 years? Chief Executive Officer

  The sad truth is that women’s work has never been valued. Even women who have been in the workforce full time, or women who have never had children, find their options shrinking after a certain age. This is part of the ongoing theme of becoming invisible. It’s also part of the ongoing theme of treating women like second-class citizens. Women in the workforce are paid less than their male counterparts, are less likely to be promoted, and are more likely to be the victims of sexual harassment. All of these inequities are statistically more pronounced among people of color.

  There is a mostly unspoken idea that to become successful a woman must be of questionable character. Even the most successful women suffer from this prejudice, just ask Hillary Clinton. Sexism is alive and well, and when it mingles with ageism it’s a potent combination. If a woman has children and she’s successful, she has neglected her children. If a woman doesn’t have children and she’s successful, she’s selfish. If a woman has climbed the ladder of success, she’s done it either on her back or at the expense of other people. How could any woman succeed by virtue of her intellect, talent, vision, hard work, and skill? That’s preposterous!

  An archaic idea undergirds the manner in which women are treated in the workforce: Men are the main breadwinners and therefore they deserve to earn more money and more promotions. Even if that belief is no longer true, it affects women in the workforce every single day.

  The bottom line is that the value of women’s work is ranked below that of men—at any age—and women workers over the age of 50 are viewed as particularly disposable. This pisses me off, and it should piss you off. If it pisses us all off enough, ma
ybe we’ll start making some noise about it. If we make enough noise, maybe we can change this myopic belief.

  Late Bloomer

  A few years before I turned 30, while I was getting a degree in theater, a relative and I were talking at a wedding reception. I was explaining my plan to pursue my acting career after college. He paused, puffed on a cigarette, stared at me incredulously, and said, “Aren’t you a little long in the tooth for that career?”

  I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that question.

  Really? Not even 30 and all hope was lost? I had not even stopped to consider that perhaps I was too old to pursue acting. It was and still is my passion to perform, and I did it well. It was my sole and driving force, the reason I got up every day and hit the ground running. I couldn’t imagine not performing. I surely couldn’t imagine changing direction and going to work in an office. It had not occurred to me that I wouldn’t have a career as an actor.

  Was I delusional? Perhaps. But I think a little delusion is required when navigating a dream that the world deems impossible.

  I have never taken the easy road. I have never made safe choices. I have rarely done what was expected. I sometimes wonder how my life would look had I not chosen the road less traveled. Then I let that shit go because it’s depressing as hell.

  Here I am, at 55, after taking a hiatus to raise my lovely daughter, attempting the journey back toward what may well be the impossible, to make a viable career as a writer and an on-camera host and performer. I know people think I’m insane. I know people think any woman over 50 is insane for believing she has a future on camera or onstage. That is the age at which we are told to step aside and exit stage right. We are, after all, the older model. I am, literally, long in the tooth for this career. Yet, I don’t think it’s impossible. Improbable? Perhaps. But not impossible.