Une Femme d’un Certain Âge

Bryan thinks I like this photo because he looks afraid of me. He's only a little bit right.

Photo from my office post-holiday party this weekend.

I also like it because this is how I think I look as I go about my day. It is only when I catch a glimpse of my reflection in rogue windows that I realize the right light does not follow me around. I am 40. Neither old nor young, really, which brings me to middle-aged, a horrible phrase that conjures up things that are dry: toast, skin, flyaway hair but not humor. It reminds me of that A.A. Milne poem "Halfway Down":

Halfway down the stairs / Is a stair / Where I sit. / There isn’t any / Other stair / Quite like / It. / I’m not at the bottom, / I’m not at the top; / So this is the stair / Where / I always / Stop. / Halfway up the stairs / Isn’t up, / And isn’t down. / It isn’t in the nursery, / It isn’t in the town. / And all sorts of funny thoughts / Run round my head: / “It isn’t really / Anywhere! / It’s somewhere else / Instead!”

Which is where I am, I think, most days as I walk around thinking I look like this. Not up, not down, not afraid even, but somewhere else instead.