Do I really need to act my age at my age?

How do I act my age when I’ve never been this age before? 

Is it fair for me to put expectations on myself because of the “number” I am? 

Should I be curbing the free-spirited woman who I’m morphing into to be someone more tamed? Outwardly mature? Demure even? 

Should I be shutting down my body and mind to focus only on pursuits that are more suitable to a woman of my age? And, exactly what is suitable? 

And most important: Why am I struggling with this? Why does this remain a constant turmoil within me; the desire to do what I please versus the desire to please?

Who, exactly, am I pleasing? What, exactly, am I doing?

I’ve always been a curious mix of many things. I am the oldest child and only daughter of farming parents. There was a lot of responsibility placed on me growing up, which was really no different than any other child in our community. Also, for as long as I can remember, I have been a people pleaser. I was a girl, now a woman, who sought the approval of others by colouring inside their lines. Oh, I’ve broken rules — lots of rules — but I learned to cover my ass and, if need be, profess my sins. And then step back into the space between the lines.

On the other hand, the flipside to the people pleaser has been an inquisitive mind and a thirst to try new and different adventures. Not having a lot of financial resources in my younger years, my adventures were closer to home. My learning tended to be about life and not books (although I did graduate from post-secondary institutions). I’ve attempted to learn languages, learn how to bake different concoctions, learn about houseplants. Learn about men. About how sex isn’t always love and sometimes not even like. I learned that I have a penchant for attracting men who aren’t good for me mentally. These lessons, born out of wanting to be part of two, led to desperation when I wasn’t chosen, when I deemed myself not worthy enough to be pursued because I wasn’t pursued. I was passed over. But the culmination of the lessons from all the wrong men led to meeting the right man — and life with My Favourite Husband (MFH) began. 

That life was settled, tame, domesticated. I wouldn’t say it was boring but it wasn’t challenging in a way that stretched my brain. I reverted to being a people pleaser, often putting the needs and desires of MFH above my own. To be fair, very fair, he was fair. But he got his own way often and I let him without resentment. Being a bit of a risk-taker, we had some fun but my solo pursuits weren’t creative. Except for bellydancing. He didn’t curb anything I expressed trying but being sedentary and stable  was part of being two in the context of him and I. 

Our last years together I spent as a caregiver with hope — hope for a transplant, for a new lease on life in the next phase of our lives. When he died, and two became one, one floundered. I careened from wall to wall. There was no one left to please. I can’t please a ghost. 

The last four years — years of my 50s — I have reverted back to the last time I was single but with the advantage of life experiences and financial stability. The financial stability offers me choices. I am not a rich woman but I am a comfortable woman so I can carefully plot out adventures like travel within my means. I can choose where I work and what I want my employment to look like. I can choose to be solo or take a lover but, this time around, with the security that I’m not building a future. I’ve built one. And though I momentarily stumbled once by briefly being involved with a broken man who didn’t treat me like the Queen I am, I no longer will put up with being second best. 

So, all of this is good, fine in fact. So where does the rest of the insecurity stem from? The not “acting my age” and being worried about it? Thinking I should be acting more like a Babba than a Babe? 

If there’s no pressure from MFH (or his ghost). No pressure from a Dad who has long since passed. No pressure from my Mom who, although she isn’t a fan of me trotting around the world solo, hasn’t voiced her disapproval (although she asks for daily proof of life texts when I’m abroad). No pressure from a partner. If there’s no credible pressure or expectation from anyone, the disapproval must be coming from me. Which is so fucked up because I love the pursuits I pursue. 

I’ve taken bellydancing and burlesque. At some point, I’d like to perform in a burlesque show. I’ve taken a Twerkshop workshop. I’m in the pool almost daily doing aquafit. I frequent a smutty bookstore and have seen intuitive readers. I’ve travelled on my own, gone to concerts and events both solo and with friends. I’ve had so many adventures with even more on the books. I’ve loved them all — even the ones I didn’t like — because I’ve tried  them. 

But have they been age appropriate ? Am I too frequently acting like I’m 26 instead of 60? Even though my body sometimes aches and groans in frustration at what it finds difficult to do, my mind coaxes it to at least try whatever adventure interests me. On this last trip, it was scouting for a place to take future surfing lessons and doing preliminary investigations into running with the bulls. I cannot lie: “no” is a sparsely used term in my vocabulary. 

I don’t actively look for offbeat adventures. I don’t purposefully seek out activities that are daring, difficult and daft — mentally or physically. I don’t challenge myself because of my age as I have nothing to prove to anyone. And therein lies the key: with nothing to prove to anyone, including myself,  shouldn’t that allow me the freedom to do as I please? To choose my journey? To select my adventure?  Shouldn’t that philosophy provide me with the exact reason why acting my age is a nonsensical statement because not needing to prove anything to anyone means living a life where anything I want to be possible is?

It’s a work in progress and one where the answer isn’t found in a self help book. However, it may be on a beach. Don’t you think it’s at least worth looking?