Not much has been written about Women of a Certain Age although we certainly do exist. The few articles are usually hidden on a back page, typically next to the Obituaries, or buried deep within the links of an online format. It’s the myth vs. the reality regarding women of a certain age…women who are
old, older, um well-seasoned by life.
The definition of a woman of a certain age is apparently defined by her hormones, or lack thereof. This county, and Great Britain for that matter, tend to lump single women of a certain age into a rather vague, grey nothingness — a spinsterhood somewhere beyond menopause, which is apparently the dividing line between maiden/mother and crone — that marks the slow, winkled descent into elder-hood and death.
Wow. Alone and asexual. Now that’s something young women can put on their calendars and look forward to.
Women who do not accept the prescribed definition are faced with a myriad of challenges.
Single women of a certain age are labeled Cougars for doing the identical thing that men do everyday — although, I admit, men are a whole lot more successful with their marketing strategies.
Then, there is the very well-advertised, large HMO that refuses to prescribe hormones because of a woman’s age (“old” being the operative, diagnostic term) while perfectly willing to provide men of all ages with a variety of enhancement pills.
While we could embrace a mass exodus to France, where both men and women of a certain age enter a rather erotic phase of life, we might also consider redefining the myth with a more realistic version of entering that certain age..with a certain confidence, a certain air and a certain wisdom regarding life, aging, sexuality and partnerships.
I rather like that approach, but in the meantime, there are still those pesky assumptions that keep getting made about women of a certain age…
A while back, I had a date with an older gentleman — I’m saying older because his whole demeanor was old although he was only a couple years older than I. We sat down with the prerequisite coffee and began the conversation. He told me about his car, his daily routine and the stress of keeping up on a recent walking tour in Europe.
Then, he lowered his voice, confiding that he had problems “down there” and he looked downward.
I looked down at his feet, given all the walking hardships of his European trip.
No, not my feet!
oh. I wasn’t going to look there so I refocused on his face.
He leaned in toward me, as if to share something very confidential.
It was more than a bit uncomfortable, not knowing the man and not even finished with my coffee, but there was no break with which to make my escape. He was adamant about sharing, which he did with all the confidence of a man experienced with women of a certain age.
And it doesn’t matter. Women your age aren’t interested in sex anyway.
He smiled and leaned back in his chair. He had had just solved his problem by making it my problem.
Um. I hate to burst your bubble, but not all women of my age are finished with sex. Many of us actually enjoy sex quite a bit.
As his bubble burst, this woman of a certain age spotted her escape, thanked him for the coffee and made a quick exit.