Washington Life Magazine
Washington Life Magazine




The Fortynothings
Call them the true tweeners – not old enough to know about JFK (first hand) and not young enough to enjoy the spoils of youth. the ’60s generation seems lost in the woods

B Y   M I C H A E L  S T R A N G E


Once upon a time 40 was the old 50, but now that baby boomers have made 50 the new 30, what’s a 40-something to do? In the aging game, it can’t be worse than to have been born the year Kennedy died, or soon thereafter, because almost everybody who came before you knows something you’ll never know and, they’ll be smug to admit, are all the cooler for it. In this time on earth, those in their 40s really are a lost generation – the fortynothings. They never made it on to anybody’s radar. They didn’t have to fight the Vietnam war, STD’s hit in the decade of their sexual prime, and, horror of horrors, that same decade, the ’80s, gave us big hair, glam rock and Jimmy Carter. (We love Jimmy now, but, seriously, he was a downer when he had the big job.) Even among the crop of presidential candidates only Barack Obama was born in the ’60s. Indeed, what is a 44-year-old to do?
   These questions were on the mind at a friend’s 45th birthday soirée that occurred on one of the coldest days of winter (another insult). It was a costume party, of course, and do I need to tell you it’s not a pretty sight to see middle-agers done up as Olivia Newton-John, Pat Benatar, Deborah Harry and Gene Simmons. Mr. Strange went as Walter Mondale while I was Joan Jett, an intentionally improbable couple. The birthday boy himself was Michael Jackson, which should have clued us all in to the troubled
   She met Whitman at the Battle of Fredericksburg. Already a famous poet and journalist, Whitman was there looking for his brother, who had been reported wounded. His aid to the fallen men on the battlefield would

mindset of the 40ish male, especially since his wife dressed as Mikhail Gorbachev. Seriously, all that was needed to make this cork pop was some LSD in the champagne punch. But everyone behaved because this is, after all, Washington.
    Here are some facts about the 40s: It’s when we face our first intimations of mortality, and cross the bridge from eternal youth to aging. We notice the ride has changed and we’re not as thrilled by the sharp curves and deep dips that used to make us giddy with infallibility. There are gray hairs and crow’s feet and the debate over “do I or don’t I” when hearing others praise Botox, dermabrasion, acid peels, nips, tucks and everything else on the overhaul menu. Just remember, it creates a fork in the road. In one direction is Pamela Harriman and in another Jocelyn Wildenstein.

   The cruelest turn is when children begin to fly out of the nest and we’re left at the breakfast table, sitting across from only each other, while the big Peggy Lee question hits smack between the eyes: is that all there is? And the next question: do you keep dancing or do you jump ship? It’s not so much that a lot of people divorce in their 40s, but it is the decade when looking around becomes a possibility, which can then evolve into divorce in the 50s or 60s. It’s now when the tracks are laid for the next 40 years, because that’s all you’ve got if you are among the fortunate.

   Milestones, markers, goals, dreams – they all come to roost in your forties. For women it’s marriage and babies, especially if having one –

a marriage and/or a baby – is still an unfulfilled ambition. For men, it’s about the top job. Is it on the horizon, within reach, or not likely to happen? If it hasn’t happened by 45, it may never. As times have changed, women have put the baby issue aside for careers while men have put careers aside for family. Now, the bell tolls for both.

   Then there’s the simple agony of the pervasiveness of youth, whether it confronts you while paging through a fashion magazine, going to a film, walking down the street, or stepping onto a jet and taking a glance into the cockpit. Younger people are everywhere and they are gaining ground. Suddenly, you wish you lived in China, where people in their 90s are revered as the masters of the universe.

    Sigh. Back to my friend’s party where I, Joan Jett, found myself on the dance floor with the birthday boy, Michael Jackson, trying to rock it to Van Halen’s Jump – not a pretty sight. Spent and sweaty, we retreated to a sofa. “It was easier 20 years ago with a head full of blow,” he said. “Roger that,” I laughed, as much at his words as his melting “white face” make-up and the sparkly solo glove. Why do we try so hard? Is it because 45 is close enough to 30 that we think we can turn back the hands of time? “Look on the bright side,” I told him. “In five years you’ll be 50, born again and able to start over without having to make any excuses.” Or, he can move to China.



 



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