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In a draft for a recent story for Allure, I described—without a second thought—67-year-old Andie MacDowell as “middle-aged.” Delightful editorial snark ensued: “What’s 40, then, infancy?” Good question, Snarker (himself in his seventh decade, for the record), but what do you call a 67-year-old who’s thriving in her career, thoroughly engaged socially, and looks no older than 55? Elderly? Mature? Yeesh, senior?
“Middle-aged” didn’t make the cut in that story, but the question did get me thinking about what defines “middle age” today. Why? Because I continue to think of myself in that category, even though I’d have to live to 150 for it to be numerically accurate. A little over 100 years ago, the average global life expectancy of a newborn was 32 years. Thirty-two years! Which means that that newborn reached her mid-life by age 16. (I want to interject here that it would’ve been completely appropriate to call my behavior at 16 a “midlife crisis,” as I exhibited many of the symptoms of someone constantly recalibrating unfortunate choices.) By 2021, average global life expectancy had doubled, reaching just over 70 years. In the US today, the average life expectancy for women is a little over 81. But who’s counting?
Well, I am. I just looked at a chart detailing how many years Americans have left, by age; that chart gives me around 12 years. But I also calculated my life expectancy on something ghoulishly called the Death Clock, which supposedly estimates how long you’re going to live. That had me checking out at 110. (Buy the unripe bananas? Sure!)
A little over 100 years ago, the average global life expectancy of a newborn was 32 years.
Working with those more (and sometimes wildly) optimistic numbers, researchers generally now consider the midlife span between around 40 to 60 years, plus or minus 10. But one study suggests that the perception of when mid-life ends and old age begins may be prone to upward shifts. Why? An increase in life expectancy, of course, but also because of better physical health in older people, later retirement (or none), and more social engagement. We may consequently feel younger than the expectations for our age group. All of which could lead to the assumption that chronological age might not be the best way to determine which aging category you fall into.
In fact, unlike other life transitions such as puberty and menopause, old age has no definitive physiological markers and, researchers are discovering, happens in myriad physical and mental changes that occur on a continuum, but with no definitive timeline. Some researchers believe it’s not even a linear process, but one with rapid bursts of aging at certain tipping points, every 20 years or so.
It seems a better way to diagnose where you belong on the steep, rocky track to Nowhere (as the late, great Jan Morris called it) is to locate your place in psychologist Erik Erikson’s stages of human development. In the stage encompassing ages around 40 to 65 he suggests we’re concerned with generativity, nurturing the next generation and contributing to society. In the next stage, age 65 and older, we look back on the way we’ve lived our life and come to terms with our successes and failures; he calls this wisdom.
Doesn’t it make sense that those of us who are still concerned with generativity, with valuable contributions to society and the culture, might feel like we belong in the category of 40 to 65-year-olds? Even while looking back and coming to terms with successes and failures?
There’s another good reason we might want to continue our stroll through the fruitful gardens of the middle-aged. In the land of the elderly, the weeds and gnarly roots of ageism are rampant, and the more often we’re identified as “old” or “senior,” the greater the risk they will trip us up, sidelining us or increasing our vulnerability to bias. Integrating those ageist attitudes ourselves can also lead to poor mental and physical health, according to psychologist Becca Levi, who demonstrated in a study that positive beliefs about aging led to better health.
In the land of the elderly, the weeds and gnarly roots of ageism are rampant.
Careful Allure readers might remember that not so long ago, I accidentally generated a small kerfuffle by calling a group of actresses at the Golden Globes “old ladies.” They ranged in age from 59 to 76, and I was calling out their maturity to make the point that none of their recent career successes were hampered by a loss of youth. Personally, I don’t consider the term “old lady” derogatory, and was frankly insulted at the flood of commenters who did. I myself am an old lady, and it’s a cohort of valuable, gifted, ambitious women that I’m proud to be a part of. So what was everyone’s problem?
The problem was that these women—Demi Moore and Tilda Swinton and Kathy Bates and Isabella Rossellini and a dozen more—didn’t fit the accepted notion of what an “old lady” is like: frail, helpless, useless, dependent, invisible—even though half a dozen of them had passed through what’s commonly considered mid-life into (a flourishing) old age. It’s becoming increasingly challenging to use the current ways we age-categorize people based on physical fitness, mental acuity, career evolution, and, last but not least, appearance.
And hoo-boy, appearance! On social media and celebrity news outlets, it’s become almost impossible to see the age difference between mother and daughter—a shining example being in the Kardashian klan between 70-year-old Kris and her 44-year-old daughter, Kim. As I wrote last month during peak Kris Jenner Facelift discourse, “the resemblance between Kris and Kim—I think it’s Kim—after Kris’s most recent facial renovation is similar enough that in photos they look like AI sisters, if not twins. There’s a 25-year age difference between them; one of them has birthed six children, is a grandmother of 13, and is only five years younger than I am at the cusp of 75. But in photos, the Kris/Kim’s look basically the same age.” (Part of my point here was also that we are fed a steady junk food diet of filtered imagery, coupled with hair and makeup magic, that make it almost impossible to pinpoint anyone’s actual age.)
So why categorize at all? If it’s true that aging occurs on a continuum, that we age at different rates over the course of a lifetime, what does “middle age” mean, anyway? If you’re present, engaged—whether you’re raising young kids or babysitting your grandkids—you’re in the middle of it.
Mid-life: It’s where we are, all of us, till we aren’t anymore.