When I was 18 years old, I wrote a poem about a middle-aged woman who had hurt my mother.  I frequently took my writing back to Madison High School, to Mr. Robinson's class, for his take on my efforts.  Here's a poem I wrote and took to him.

Act Your Age

You are
middle-aged thinness
massaged into tight jello packages.
You try too hard
to find life in perpetual youth.

Skin sizzled so often to that perfect bronze,
at 50 it makes a dull, midwestern print
of the wrinkled material
you pinch and paint into a face.

The lowered, booming laugh
nervously echoes
out of the bloodspattered tool
you use to dissect others,
cut them down
to size.

Someone should shout into your cultured ear
the secret you scamper for.

Life is not a new Audi Fox.
Hearts were not made to be sacrificed
to your god of immortality.

Someone has slapped you to say
I care.
Rub the bruise,
turn the cheek,
hurt,
and begin to live.

Mr. Robinson had a two-word comment for me.  "Tough poem." 

At the time, I took it as a compliment.  But now that I'm approaching (on tiptoe) my own 50th birthday (2 1/2 years and counting), I see that he was making less of a comment about the craft of the poem and more of a comment about its perspective.

I'm not sure why the poem came back to me today.  But it has resonated.  And while no one could accuse me of middle-aged thinness, the line about tight jello packages hits a little close to home for this workout addicted gal.

There's a line, fine and hard to locate, between pursuing health and keeping the perspective of youth--life and adventure outweighing caution and aging.  I'm not sure where the line is exactly, but I hope that I'm erring on the side of adventure.

If that causes an 18-year-old to occasionally wish I'd act my age, I guess that's a good thing.  I understand where they're coming from.  And I know that someday, they'll appreciate where I'm coming from, too!

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