There are no sexier words.
“There goes that inspiring, middle-aged woman.” Is a sentence you never here.
“I just can’t wait to be middle-aged.” That’s another one.
And I can’t imagine why. I am there, and, at its worst, “Middle age” is a time of chin-hairs, menopause-panic, a thickening waist, social invisibility, low-level incontinence (peeing when you laugh, basically), the last throes of blood-bath periods, wrinkles, a lowered libido, ageing parents and demanding children.
Come on, what’s not to like?
Us Generation Xers are in denial about being middle-aged. Generation Y – who now fall into the broad definition, since it officially starts at 35 (and ends, apparently, at 58, after which, presumably, the universe just wants to label us ‘ancient’?) – are certainly not down with it.
And because us X and Ys are uppity rule-breakers who like to pretend we’re the first people to have ever lived through anything, we are redefining it.
Enter, the Midult.
What’s a midult? You can listen to Holly, Jessie Stephens and Mia Freedman discuss it, here: