46

My age.

I remember my own mother at 46. I was 19. Invincible. My Mom, newly divorced, worried about whether she could get a job or date. Or make new friends. Or dance. Ridiculous, I thought. She's only 46.

Only 46. I'd like to reinhabit the glibness with which I spoke those words.

46 is old enough to give rise too the question: Why haven't you? As in why haven't you won the Nobel prize? Or had one of your novels published? Or even finished one?

Because lots of people have done all those things (except winning the Nobel), by this age.

Why haven't I? Why haven't you?

The answer we're afraid of is: Because you can't.

That's why authors first published in middle age cheer me enourmously. Thank you, Annie Proulx.

It can be done, even if my mother never really did learn to dance.