“Do not go gentle into that good night,
Rage, rage, against the dying of the light.”

I find myself thinking a lot of that Dylan Thomas poem lately. Maybe it has something to do with turning 50. (Probably). But it’s also because in so many ways, my life has been that of a late bloomer. After being unceremoniously hurried into this life (thanks to my mother and her Rh negative status), I have taken my sweet time to get to pretty much everything.

My motto might be, don’t fence me in and don’t fucking rush me.

What’s that saying about the show not being over until the fat lady sings? I’m not singing, but the show is most definitely NOT OVER. Not for me it fucking isn’t.

There is something about the ambient expectations that society holds about age, and about you as you enter it, that makes me incandescent with anger. A kind of defiant rage.

I understand Thomas’ raging against the dying of the light.

A lot of my understanding feels informed by what I saw happen during the pandemic. Namely the perception—whether overt or implied—that the deaths of the older people we watched die in horrific numbers were fine. “They were going to die anyway,” being the general understanding about their otherwise premature deaths.

There is a patronizing idea that older people should just let go. Let go of ego, let go of caring, let go of everything that defines their lives and the things they enjoy. This perception that somehow transitioning to your inevitable death means relinquishing everything even before you’ve died. Hence, waiting around till it happens.

I’ve watched this idea play out in other ways, too. The idea that it’s OK to fire people in their 50s or later. A sense that older people, while great for grandparent duty, are otherwise useless or unnecessary. They have no purpose. We keep them around, they’re kindly and nice, but otherwise totally non-contributing to society, so they’re easier to push off the ice floe when necessary.

It is far too easy to internalize these ideas and then have them play out in our own lives, whether we intend for them to or not.

Fucking bullshit is what I say. Rage against that bullshit.

I want to see women of my age claiming their rightful place in society, not being shoved to the side. I want women as we age to be seen as fuckable, if we want to be. I want to see older people given a chance to claim their places as elders and teachers.

I want to see wisdom and power, not retirement to a room with a TV and a blanket.

I want it to be fucking hot as shit to let your hair go grey if you’re a female. I started to go grey at 19, and it never slowed down. I’ve never gotten more positive attention for my hair since I stopped dying it at 43 and let it go completely grey. But it’s usually “oh, I could never do that.” Sex appeal or attractiveness isn’t typically associated with grey hair unless you’re a man, then you’re a “silver fox.”

I want to be part of changing people’s perceptions of what an older woman IS.

I remember telling a friend in my 20s that I intended to fight aging. At the time, he might have thought I meant the visual signs of it. I may have thought that myself. Ironically, it appears as if the goal to live longer seems driven by younger people incapable of imagining what age might be, who appear unable to let go of youth because of these dumb ideas of what it means to be older.

And sure, I’ve taken much better care of myself of late, but that’s mostly because I’m interested in enjoying as vital and as long of a life as I can manage. Also, late bloomer me had a kid at 42, so I have to stick around for that reason alone, a non negotiable as far as I’m concerned.

And because, fuck your perceptions of what an older lady is supposed to look like or not.

I take care of my body. But these things are because I am well aware that the body gets old, even when the mind, heart, and soul don’t. I’m never going to keep these permanently in sync, but I’ll do what I can not to let them fall out of sync prematurely.

And as I get older, I realize that fighting aging means fighting the fucking stupid stereotypes of what an older person is. What it means in your mind and your heart and your soul.

I find myself thinking of my mother, years ago, telling me how she felt a certain youthful age inside herself, and I feel that so powerfully myself, I want the world to see it. See what it is to truly own your youth, even as the time passes. A phase not many of us knew what to do with, when we were in it.

Living your life thoroughly to the very end means having a complete idea of what each stage means, and being able to bring them forth as you need to. Young people don’t have the dominion on youth. (That could be a whole entire essay on its own).

Age doesn’t have to mean relinquishing the spirit and drive and motivation of youth, regardless of what happens to the rest of you. You don’t have to give it up prematurely. It doesn’t mean giving up living before your life is actually over.

And right now, I have too much to do.

A note on the photo: this is a temporary, hand-drawn tattoo, hence the rough look. The phrase references a workshop I took with the incredible James Victore, who talked about the idea of being a creative who is afraid to "rock the boat". To which he replied, "sink the fucking boat!"