Who Is The Perfect Middle-Aged Woman?

There was a point when I was going to name my manuscript, Grave Expectations – a wordplay on the title of the Dickens novel – that, initially, I thought was really clever. You see, one of the main themes of my story is the impossibility of living up to expectation – the expectation on the mother to be the glue of the family, the expectation on the father to be the breadwinner, and the expectation on the children – on the son to toe the line of convention, and on the daughter to compensate for her brother’s challenging behaviour.

Photo from Matheus Ferraro on Unsplash.com

The difficulties of trying to live up to expectation feel particularly poignant right now. Middle age has given me a clearer insight of the way that society measures “success” and its distorted values. I can see now why so many of us end up in jobs or relationships that don’t suit us, or in a permanent fug caused by a sense of failure.

Looking back, I spent my twenties trying to carve out the life my parents wanted me to have, and my thirties and forties trying to be a perfect parent. It’s only since I reached my fifties that I’m actually making decisions for ME, doing what I want to do – and only because I’m privileged enough to have the financial security to change my course.

I find it strange how we associate men with the midlife crisis – caused by the realisation that this is the last chance to make changes – when, in my experience, women experience a similar mental shift, spurred on by the same awareness of time running out.

That’s why divorce is so common in middle age. Women reach a point when they are exhausted by the pressure to be everything for everyone else. It’s not only career expectations we have to worry about. We live in a society that expects us to stay young and beautiful, to be perfect mothers, lovers and carers, and somewhere in that mix we are also expected to make a mark in our career.

The expectation to remain sex sirens – beyond our reproductive years – is the most ridiculous one to me. I don’t think I’m imagining the pressure on some women to remain available for their (more highly sexually driven) men at all times. Nor the trope of the stereotypical middle-aged woman as a moody, dried-up shrew, whose decision to batten down the hatches provides men with the perfect excuse to hunt elsewhere.

Conversely, middle-aged men are portrayed as George Clooney types – silver foxes who are still rampantly sexually active and attractive to women half their age, rather than the needy, pot-bellied, miserable gits that most of us know and love.

Very little is said about the men who lose their sex drive in middle age.

Caitlin Moran mentions the reality of middle-aged sex in her latest book “More Than A Woman”, and her description of what she calls the “maintenance shag” – the shag many couples (who have been married FOREVER) force themselves to endure to meet society’s expectation of a healthy relationship – is, frankly, hilarious. While her comments about anal sex made me a little uncomfortable, her dissection of the planning involved to get the weekly/monthly/annual/Christmas maintenance shag over and done with to prove to ourselves we’ve still got it – is something I can definitely identify with.

I feel that pressure to maintain a level of intimacy with my husband, that goes beyond him flashing his penis at me in the kitchen at every opportunity, or dry-humping me each time I bend down in front of the dishwasher. But the truth is, after more than thirty years together, I get more turned on by a Marion Grasby cooking video than the sight of my husband’s drooping balls.

And why should we feel bad about not shagging as much as the next couple?

Obviously, social media doesn’t help with the guilt. Images of women in their fifties who continue to look fabulous – and I don’t just mean young – pile on the pressure. As does advertising that blatantly targets our insecurities. Beauty companies are relentless in their quest to make middle-aged women question if they are living up to their responsibilities as perfect older women.

Personally, I refuse to believe that the majority of those middle-aged women, who have spent more than half their lives with the same partner, are really rooting like rabbits.

And in case you need reminding, there is absolutely nothing wrong with contentment. Sometimes, a marathon session on Netflix is far more fulfilling than a quick poke and associated muscle strains the following morning. And if the only intimacy you share with your partner is holding hands on the beach, that’s okay too. I suspect it’s way more intimacy than many couples experience.

No one leads a charmed life – you only have to look at what celebrities Chrissie and John Legend have gone through recently to realise that.

And on the subject of Caitlin’s sage advice, another piece that resonated with me in her book was “don’t marry a cunt”. Suffice it to say, there is no perfect man either – which is the most important nugget of wisdom we women should share with our daughters, after the truth about childbirth. Fortunately for me, I had a father who thought with his penis and I learned early on that serial Romeos can rarely be tamed. Hence, if I’ve done one thing right in my life, it has been to marry a good man.

Not a perfect man, but a good one.

Life is about making choices. If I really wanted to have hot sex every night of the week, I could probably find someone to deliver the goods – although, admittedly, I might have to pay for it. But would he be a world authority, i.e professional mansplainer about pretty much everything I need to know in life?

More importantly, would he have been there for me all those times I’ve fallen?

Middle age fucks with our bodies and our minds. It throws up all sorts of questions we stuffed away in the too hard box during those crazy years of young adulthood and parenting. And yet, it also opens the door to self-reflection. We can’t change the past, but we can make meaningful choices about our future. Self-evaluation is the path to that freedom. More time to think about what I want has given me freedom from toxic relationships, unnecessary anxiety, and the constraints of the ridiculous beauty standards demanded of women.

Slowly, I am silencing my inner judge that used to tell me I wasn’t good enough. At fifty-five, I can be who I want to be, and I’m enjoying the experiment. I don’t aspire to look forty, but neither am I ready for fluffy slippers and herbal teas. Right now, I want to be different things on different days, so long as I am me.

Are you meeting society’s expectations of the perfect middle-aged woman?

Can I Body-Shame All Middle Aged Men Who Wear Speedos?

There is this bizarre conspiracy in Australia where middle-aged men, no matter what the size of their girth or tackle, believe they can wear Speedos in public and remain beyond reproach.

 

Middle-aged women on the other hand, are demonised if they dare squeeze their middle-aged frames into a bikini.

 

I  might question the style and sanity of a tubby middle-aged man’s decision to wear a pair of Speedos, but I have no serious issue with it; what does offend me, however, is the double-standard, whereby women are picked out, shamed and publicly flogged for flaunting their bodies in public, whereas men are largely ignored.

 

I should point out that I also have nothing against the brand of Speedos, which I wear myself whenever I pound down the lanes of my local pool in an effort to control my wobbly bits, just as I would not be averse to marketing their wonderful products here on this blog, should the opportunity arise. They just happen to have given men the means by which they can display their beer bellies and sagging testicles in all their glory.

 

Below is the proof that some men look good in Speedos. And for the record, this not an ageist blog post, because even Tony Abbott – who I can commend for very little other than his obvious aversion to the middle-aged beer gut – has proven that Speedos, even on a dad-bod, can be acceptable.

 

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Although if you’re Prime Minister, they’re still a bit ewww!

 

And I don’t hear the younger generations bemoaning their Dad’s choice of Speedos over the more reserved short, quite as vocally as I hear them berate women of a certain age and over a certain size for wearing bikinis in public.

 

For the first time in a very long time I bravely donned a bikini this year. The decision might have been borne out of my new fifty-plus ‘fuck it’ attitude, the wisdom that my child-bearing wobbly bits should be something to be proud of, or simply because it’s been a fucking hot summer, I’m menopausal and the more hot skin exposed, the greater the relief.

 

And I can imagine that it might be a bit of a drag (literally) for men to have to wear surf shorts when they’re swimming.

 

So we’re on the same side. We just need a little bit of equality here.

 

I’m happy to ignore the beer bellies, love handles, extra tyres and tiny, almost embarrassing tackle, if men can ignore my muffin top, saggy boobs and thighs that touch all the way down. Let’s all agree that there is no greater natural feeling than the sun on skin, and that it’s really not important what we do or don’t wear …unless we’re talking nudist beaches, which obviously brings up the problem of penises on the loose and all sorts of horrible awkwardness.