“Ah, but I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now.” – Bob Dylan, “My Back Pages”
I used to regard those people going through midlife crises with some disdain. You know, the stereotypical middle-aged guy who divorces his wife, buys a red sports car and marries someone half his age. Or the formerly slightly frumpy woman who starts dressing like her teenage daughter, gets a tattoo, and begins partying like there’s no tomorrow. Now that I’ve reached my middle years, though, I view them with a little more sympathy. I understand that they’re acting out of fear and desperation. They woke up one morning and realized that their youth was slipping away and that death was closer than they realized. So they are trying to prove to themselves and everyone else that they are still young and sexually attractive.
I’ve certainly been feeling it myself lately. I’m dissatisfied with my image in the mirror. I’m often restless and anxious. I’m unhappy with my job, and indeed my career. In flailing about, trying to make sense of things, I’ve stumbled onto a book, It’s Only Too Late If You Don’t Start Now by Barbara Sher, which has been really invaluable. Her basic message is countercultural: life after 40 is better than life before 40. I won’t go into all the details of her book, but basically her contention is that the period between puberty and middle age is marked by semi-madness fueled by irresistible biological drives. In essence, being an adolescent or a young adult sucks. Now, I can certainly agree with that, at least where my own life is concerned. She also contends that the period beginning in middle age doesn’t suck, that it’s actually a lot better. That I have yet to see for myself, but admittedly I do know a lot of happy people in that age group. One of Sher’s most intriguing ideas is that the person you were immediately prior to the onset of puberty, say 10-12, is closest to your true self, and that you begin to reclaim that self after your biological drives calm down.
I’ve been thinking a lot about all this in relation to my gender identity. At age 12 I had been crossdressing for a long time, was naturally somewhat feminine, and though I don’t remember identifying as a girl, I certainly had a lot of female friends and was generally confident and OK with myself. About the time puberty hit, so did the guilt and depression. I decided I needed to learn how to walk, talk, and carry myself like the other males. I wanted all the blossoming young women to see me as a man, as sexually desirable, and I cheered on the onset of male secondary sexual characteristics like a deeper voice and body hair. My desire to wear women’s clothes certainly did not go away, but I felt very guilty about it, especially since it had taken on a strong sexual dimension.
Now here I am, 40 years old, and the madness is slowly subsiding. I’m wondering who I really am, and what do I want to do with the remainder of my life. And what my true gender identity is. As youth fades, so does the desire to impress other people or to live my life according to others’ expectations. It’s becoming clear that I want to express my femininity more strongly. There’s still the old problem of family and societal expectations, but they are beginning to pale with the realization that my time on this planet is a finite resource. I don’t believe in an afterlife, so time is doubly precious. So many transgender people transition in middle age. I’m not saying I’m going there myself, but I believe I’m beginning to understand why some do. The journey ahead promises to be interesting.
