The New Adolescence

40 is the new 14 or something like that

[Charlize Theron, Young Adult, a movie I kinda relate to!]

A few years ago I was teaching at another small liberal arts college. It was my office hours and a very good student of mine came in crying. I had planned to discuss her paper with her but instead our hour was spent discussing her deep depression that stemmed from a recent breakup. “I am 22, I feel like my life is over,” she was bawling. I tried to be sympathetic and make occasional jokes about how ancient I was and that I could assure her life is definitely not even close to over at 22. "I don’t think I will ever find a partner,” she kept going on and on. And suddenly she stopped. “You’re not married are you?” she asked me. I almost snorted. “No I am not,” I said. “Have you ever been?” she asked. I shook my head, adding, “I was engaged once briefly.” She nodded numbly past my eyes. “I am sorry,” she said. “It must feel awful.” I was confused. “What feels awful?” I asked her. “You know, being alone,” she said. I laughed. “You mean, being alone at my age?” She nodded and proceeded to cry harder. All I could say was the truth: “It isn’t awful. It’s actually fine. I don’t feel really alone.” She nodded sniffling. “Your dog?” she asked. I laughed. “Yes, there is my dog but I have friends,” I said. “And, you know, I date.” Her eyes widened briefly. “And it’s not weird,” I continued. “To be honest, if you are not married by the time you are in your late 30s, maybe just hold off a bit, because it gets really great!” She looked confused. “Seriously,” I said but I knew it was sort of a lost cause and probably cringe for this kid to imagine her old professor having fun dating. But this was the truth: I was having a much better time, at that point just before hitting 40, than I ever had. And it continued into my 40s. For one thing, I had real confidence and for another thing I had seen so much I felt it was unlikely that anything could hurt me. After all, it was new things that always had the worst sting. Another breakup, the usual exchange of platitudes, crying and some sad movies and takeout and pep talks from girl friends? Been there, done that, A LOT. 

The other thing was something a troll once said to me on Twitter: “You are so immature. I hope I am not like you when I am your age!” To which I responded like a perfectly immature person, “You wish you could feel like me when you are my age!” The person blocked me, which I got a big kick out of.

There seems to be something that happens when women hit a certain age. Much has been written about the ol’ “sexual peak” but perhaps it deeper than that. Around my mid 30s I started to feel a certain wildness that I saw in teenage boys sometimes and I so I thought it must be that hormonal thing. But my sex drive wasn’t that affected. It was just that I was suddenly happier, gave less fucks, had energy, was full of mischief, and felt really devoted to fun. It became so important. I suddenly wanted to go dancing, to skip important meetings, to stay out too late, to bum cigarettes, to eat ice cream for dinner, to shop at stores meant for teenage girls. I was into reinvention again and I was constantly dying my hair weird colors and I even repierced my septum at 37. Most my tattoos were actually projects of my mid to late 30s (I could finally commit to ideas and afford the tattoo artists who could properly pull them off; I also felt more into showing off parts of my body that they showcased).

In a lot of ways I have always been a late bloomer—all except for professionally, as my first book came out when I still in my 20s, just as my first articles were published when I was in my late teens. But I got my period very late. I wore makeup very late. My ears were pierced while in college. My first real kiss, my first partner, my first drink, my first smoke, my first everything really, happened at age 18. And I didn’t get engaged until I was 32 or so, which felt late, because at that point I was really committed to having several kids and owning a house and being adult. When I look back to my late 20s and early 30s I see a very uptight sort of person, hair perfectly ironed straight, awkwardly stuffed in fancy heels and dresses, always in a mask of makeup—it was as if I was still trying to play dress-up but this just as an “adult woman.” It never really suited my personality. But I guess I felt it was what was expected of me. I still remember this giant house I had in Santa Fe, with beautiful guest quarters, stunning diamond plaster walls and brick radiant-heated floors. I had furnished it so chicly, minimalist elegance all over. I had invested in proper kitchenware and nice furniture and I’d host these very civil dinner parties with my fiancé at the time. He also seemed so adult. We both felt so grown and worldly. We had no idea in just a few years our lives would fall apart and take so much longer than we had each other to rebuild.

When I was in my 20s, my very Iranian family would nudge me to settle down. Why don’t I date an Iranian? (I never did.) But my nickname in the family was also “Wild Horse.” They knew I was not easy for the settling. My mother at times would mutter that I was going to turn into my dad’s sisters, which I took as a compliment mostly. My dad had these three supermodel-beautiful sisters, all very tall and thin and incredibly fashionable, and they had all had sort of tragic lives in their own way. They were all very independent and had achieved a lot in their work life but they were all in very different ways rather alone. One of my aunts had spent most her life living with her mother and dating no one—she was one of the coolest girls in Tehran in her era. But she was a spinster according to my mother who saw her life as a tragedy. I didn’t know what to think. On the one hand, it seemed sad to be old and alone, but on the other hand, there had to be fun she had that we all didn’t know about, certainly. (I never found out but I chose to assume.)

Spinster stories never scared me much. I met Kate Bolick a few years ago on an Amtrak train—we were both returning to New York City from a book festival in Vermont. Just months before Kate had been on the cover of The Atlantic magazine for her infamous “Spinster” article and then book. We chatted nonstop on the train ride and found we had a lot in common. I told her I really related to her writing on this topic, as I definitely flunked a lot of relationships. She smiled and laughed gently and then let me know she was now in a relationship. A part of me felt suddenly betrayed—what sort of spinster was this? And of course, she was partnered, she was so beautiful and funny and smart, what was I thinking. She told me I was the same and that she was sure I’d meet someone. And, well, of course I did and then of course I didn’t—nothing stuck as usual, and I’d see Kate off and on in New York and in fragments clue her in on my recent anti-developments in love. I think Kate was still with the same guy.

I remember when I returned to Manhattan in 2012 after living several years in California and New Mexico, healing from a ton of illness, and I was instantly giddy and ready for anything. I started dating, a lot. My closest friend then was at a similar age and peak and we would act like the worst guys on subway rides, motioning to attractive people and bursting into uncontrollable laughter over some choice scenarios we’d conjure in whispers. We had a constant girls locker room vibe and it freaked people out. But I think part of our power and why we were scary was that we were not teens, but in our 30s. No one was going to tell on us, we couldn’t get grounded, there were no rules. There was just extremely confident women who were finally owning their happiness.

So maybe that’s just it: owning happiness. If you wait long enough you start to like yourself. Or perhaps you just lose the energy to hate yourself. In either way, you grow into who you are and then you are less likely to anchor yourself to anything or anyone that is going to bring you down. You become married, in a sense, to your joy. You start to understand why the old bachelors of American lore never seem to mind being players way past any prime. Sure society doesn’t shame older men in the same way, but there is also just the feeling that you are no longer playing a certain game. You have opted out of the settled life, the way of the elder marrieds. You are now on a fringe but not an unattractive one. It’s a sort of Peter Pannish life: your house is a mess, you walk around in your underwear, you sleep in, you stay out too late, you laugh about it all with other friends like yourself, and repeat.

So often when they interview those oldest women in the world, I have noticed their advice is always “stay away from marriage” or “don’t have kids.” I think they are often people who lived alone, while in communities where they had friends of course. They were alone but not lonely. They always sound like they chose their life, their very long life. And the interviews are always a delight because they never seem like the super-wise elders of ancient legend—they always seem a bit mischievous and child-like, claiming chocolate and bad alcohol and dancing and screaming was the secret to their longevity. I don’t why, but whenever I read about them, I feel it in my bones that they are my people.

Right now, a lot of people around me are getting divorced. They are the people texting me at odd hours and messaging me in the middle of the night. We bitch, we laugh, we make fun, we act bananas, in a way that we have not for many years. Even though I never “settled down,” I did act like a grown up for a while there. But I am glad it’s over. I feel a sort of continuity with my adolescence but without the angst.

I hope wherever you are in your journey you might allow yourself to let go off the awful cumbersome weight of adulthood and revel just a bit in regressing. Do your worst, I used to tell my brother when he took life too seriously and I guess I am here to tell you, reader, that it really is okay to, here and there, if that’s all you can do, do your worst. I recently told an interviewer I could not related to people who said things like “NO REGRETS” because I only had regrets and indeed if I got a tattoo it would say “ONLY REGRETS.” I think it’s funny not so much because it is true because that is the fuck everything energy I feel flowing through me, that truly—even through a messy adolescence where I was always held back by those who knew “better”— I have waited my whole life to reclaim.