Life in the Forties

Do you identify?

Back when I was at an age when age was something to be proud of (and back when being a New York Times-subscribing family was something to be proud of), there was a popular column by Anna Quindlen called Life in the Thirties.

I knew it was popular because my mother quoted it often. (And because, well, it was in the New York Times. If you look at my eighth-grade yearbook bio, you’ll see I was a little obsessed. Also, that I haven’t yet achieved my Life Aspirations. Also, that I grew up during the years of the Bump. Not that I’m suggesting you look at my eighth-grade yearbook.)

I’ve never read the column, because I knew it wasn’t for kids like me; it was for 30-something women like my mother — you know, women who were old and wanted to laugh about it.

This, of course, was in the good old days, when 30 was 30 and 50 was 50, and chronological age was nothing to be ashamed of. Unless you were a woman past “a certain age,” in which case, you were 29, so all was good.