Navigating Middle Age in the Bermuda Triangle
The day I became invisible, I was wearing a button-up cardigan, red tartan wool skirt, and sensible flats that whispered, “Go home and do better” with every step. This was my costume of choice as the restaurant server guided me to a murky table near the restrooms. “Dining alone, madam?” Only my bladder gushed a grateful thanks.
That was it, then. I’d reached my Bermuda Triangle age — the age where middle-aged women vanish into a black hole of invisibility.
Shaken Not Stirred
I now inhabit that planet where bartenders no longer ask for proof of ID but rather proof of stability from a licensed professional. My conservative demeanour belies the days I laughingly fell off barstools as I am now routinely helped onto them.
The Pinot Grigio is always “particularly good, Madam.” The helpful tone assumes a graduation from sexily-named cocktails to age-appropriate wines that won’t stain my teeth or reputation.
My days of Sex on the Beach, Love in the Afternoon, or a Ménage à Trois in a 69 Special are presumed beyond stiffer limbs.
I’ve morphed into a ‘Madam,’ not a ‘Miss,’ a term reserved for the dewy twenty-somethings gliding in behind me. One day I’m turning heads; the next, turning the pages of the early-bird restaurant specials.
An eager generation waits in the wings with their cocktail of orgasms, as I pack up my spent props. The Boomers and X-Gens exit stage left while the spotlight finds youth and follows it onto centre stage. It’s their time to shine and believe themselves invincible.
And like all good vanishing acts, I didn’t see it coming.
The Body Electric
The changes start small — a grey hair, a suspicious lump. I go from living life like a shampoo commercial to Googling “Is elbow hair normal?” at 3:00 am. A metabolism that once bounced back from bacon binges now holds a grudge as though I owe it money.
Still, I try to remind myself this body has lived a life and given life. It has comforted in sorrow and celebrated in joy. If the secret to eternal youth means erasing these lines, I’ll pass.
Last Calls
Still, I do feel the passing of days deeply. All the firsts seem to have melted away in an instant—first love, first job, first mortgage, first baby. First date with the twin peaks of mastitis and a urinary tract infection.
And when I’m not lamenting the passing of ‘firsts’ I’m pondering the ‘lasts.’
Mainly, how does one recognise a last moment? The Universe doesn’t warn us — like the last time you will see your husband again.
Had I known, I might have traded my threadbare dressing gown for some sultry lingerie, or at least brushed my teeth. I’d have made an effort for my husband’s last earthly glimpse of me.
Our last dialogue together would have been less mundane as he left our home for the last time. “If you’re thinking of overnighting with Mum, make sure to call her first.”
With warning, what could I have said instead?
“Please don’t die, we’re supposed to navigate this middle-aged gig together.”
But that’s the thing about ‘lasts’ — they show up dressed as ordinary days.
And suddenly, I’m ticking ‘Widow’ for the first time on a government-approved form.
The Road Less Traveled
So what now, I wonder, having traveled a long brick road and seen behind the curtain and realised the wizard and I are now the same age? Although, he still seems to have more strings and levers left to pull.
My chaotic days of juggling a full-time job, house, spouse, and children are gone. The days when I longed to pee in peace have evaporated.
Turns out, peeing in peace is overrated.
Silence of the Lambs
When my last child left the nest for New York, I sat down excitedly to write about this milestone — and my new reality.
However, in that large, peaceful farmhouse, I stared at a blank screen until nightfall. I was afraid to write too little about this momentous event — and just as afraid to write too much — so I wrote nothing.
The most important of my identities morphed into a wet, black dog.
This was the space into which writer’s block settled. It squatted as an uninvited house guest, raiding my fridge and consuming my ability to create.
Writing had always been my good friend, seeing me through major life events and assorted trials. Had it, too, disappeared along with my high, firm breasts for greener, younger pastures?
Talking it over with my twin sister, her sage advice was to “Pull yourself together, Mel.” What it lacked in nuance, it made up for in clarity and got me thinking about what middle-age might hold if I didn’t pull myself together.
Dear Lord, was I on the road to becoming another Mrs. Flynn?
The Wicked Witch of the West
Growing up, Mrs Flynn was our mysterious, older upstairs neighbour. To us children, she embodied all the qualities of a witch: thin, stooped, with uncombed hair and often seen wandering around in a white nightie and Wellington boots. We voted her ‘The Person Most Likely to Eat You.’
All neighbourhood ills were placed at this poor woman’s door, including the sudden disappearance of Johnny and his parents. We imagined she’d kidnapped the family to grind their bones into face cream when, in reality, they’d simply moved to Milton Keynes.
But how was brash youth to distinguish between portent and a life lived, however eccentric we thought it?
Spelling it Out
In reality, Mrs Flynn was likely an ordinary, middle-aged woman whose own youth had disappeared into a cauldron of life’s bubbling demands. Her perceived eccentricity was perhaps her chosen uniform for coping with the world’s expectations.
And what if she chose to walk around with wild hair, a white nightie, and Wellingtons? In middle age, haven’t we earned the right to wear whatever we like once the labels of wife, mother, homemaker, businesswoman, et al, no longer fit as they once did?
Isn’t this our time to reach into that black hole of a Bermuda Triangle and pull out identities of our choosing on any given day?
And that might also include the choice to be invisible.
The Superpower of Invisibility
I once donned my invisibility cape when out shopping with my tween daughter for her new winter coat.
Her waist-length, chocolate-brown curls bounced in the shop’s full-length mirror as her lithe body twisted and turned for a better view. She was unaware of the attention she was attracting — especially from an older man backing down an ‘Up’ escalator to get a better look.
By the time he’d made it to Ladies’ Coats, I had activated my Superpower of The Invisible Middle-Aged Woman and thrown a force field around my daughter before he got within touching distance.
He didn’t see me coming.
Keeping Up Appearances
I’ve misjudged my Bermuda Triangle age, then. It’s not about disappearing at all, but about choosing when and how to be seen, with countless ways to show up.
Some days this could be as a wily eccentric or as a protector of the young, but it must always be as a fierce defender of self in middle age and beyond.
It’s a time to tear up the chronic overthinking script of youth and toss it into the nearest black hole.
Time to step onto centre stage again for our best act yet in whatever costume we choose — even if it is a little worn around the edges.
