This deadline, while set by your body, is entirely impersonal and outside of your control. Where you are in your life simply does not factor in. Which means even though a Formerly has long since gained the wisdom to partic.i.p.ate in her own future, she does not get a say in the matter, as if she were a three-year-old being forced into an uncomfortable snowsuit she knows she'll just be sweating in. If this is you, all you can do is protest, ruminate on your options, strategize and feel paralyzed. There simply aren't that many important choices we must make as adults that we truly won't get a second chance on.

The Formerlies who come out of this whole stink pile feeling good seem to be the ones who modify their vision of what their future is going to look like, and use their Formerly wisdom to rethink their past. Instead of deciding they missed their chance to get pregnant the "right" or easier way, they recognize that had the deadline been earlier, having a baby would have been hard for other reasons. If the biological cutoff had been in your 20s, you likely wouldn't have been ready and it would have been an equally tough decision. Likely you weren't equipped in your early 30s, either, because if you had been, you'd probably have a child by now. So here you are, the deadline has arrived, and the time might not be perfect to have a baby under the ideal circ.u.mstances. That's nothing new, except that you've used up your deferments.

If, like me, you like to be in charge of your life (I don't mind jury duty; I mind having to go when they say I have to), it's infuriating! But it's not that much different from being stymied by the fact that you weren't born rich or Swedish or with the perfect parents or as one of the Kardashian sisters. You notice, you mourn your perceived loss (everything should have gone according to schedule, but it did not), and then you figure out how to be reasonably happy with the options you do have. Railing against this deadline for too terribly long doesn't bring you closer to a decision, a baby, or feeling happy in your Formerlydom.

It's actually kind of cool, looking back from the other side of the angst, once some kind of decision (any kind) has been made. I have one single friend who had a baby via donor sperm. It wasn't ideal-she had to move back in with her parents for the extra childcare and to save money, but that won't be forever. My friend Sarah is divorced and doesn't want to have a baby without a partner. Since she doesn't foresee meeting someone and building a relationship with him in time to have a baby biologically, she's had to let that go, and will weigh the adoption option if and when the time comes. That wasn't her perfect vision, either, and it was tough rethinking things, but she is happy. I have another friend who adopted from Ethiopia, another who is co-parenting with a guy friend and another who had a baby under the wire with her 10-years-younger boyfriend. She's thrilled about the baby, but the disparity in their ages definitely poses some challenges. That's not perfect, either.

In short, none of these scenarios is ideal, but if a Formerly has learned anything over time, it's that few things are-even when you think they will be, even when they appear that way from the outside and even when you do everything "right" and on time. Alas, you can't have everything, and whoever told women we could was an a.s.shole. An a.s.shole who probably thought she was being "empowering," but an a.s.shole nonetheless.

15.

Shoe Shopping and the Denial of Death.

My personal stylist, Restraint, who has firm guidelines about what I wear, is much more promiscuous with her views on fashion footwear. She has no issues with my going to town with the shoes, especially regarding their quant.i.ty and degree of flamboyance. I appreciate this about her, even if my husband does not. A few weeks ago he was nearly concussed by a (gold metallic Sven) clog when he tried to take something off the top shelf of my closet (he'll only do that once). I gave him the Boo Boo Buddy we keep in the freezer for the girls, and he didn't say a word.

What could he say, really? That I had too many shoes? This is not news, nor is it particularly shocking-many, many women do, since we love that our shoes still more or less fit us even if other clothes, over time, do not. He also probably didn't want to hear me rationalize my vast collection (over 100 pairs), especially because I do it by b.a.s.t.a.r.dizing the theory of the renowned cultural anthropologist Ernest Becker, who wrote the Pulitzer Prizewinning book The Denial of Death.

(Bear with me here. If you do, you will be rewarded with an excellent excuse to go out and buy more shoes you don't need and not feel bad about it.) Inherent in becoming a Formerly is that nagging awareness that you're getting older (not old, mind you, but oldER). It's dawning on you that you are closer to death, whenever it has a mind to pound on your door. In fact, this always has been true, even when you had huge hair and danced with moronic frat boys to Sheila E. in the late '80s. Oh, wait. That was me. Yeah, but I think I saw you there, too, by the keg. And your hair was not exactly small, either.

This was the big idea in Becker's book: He argued that everything we humans do, short of eating and reproducing, is an attempt to defend ourselves against the knowledge of our own mortality. We keep ourselves all kinds of busy studying, working and fighting wars with people who don't believe what we do, essentially to distract us from freaking out about the inevitable. Some of us attempt grand and heroic feats while we're still alive, and thus, symbolically at least, expand our power and live forever. Making a ton of money is one of the big ways some of us capitalists like to think we're going to live forever, at least symbolically.

(Still with me? Just think: shoes, shoes ... supercute shoes.) I do not have a lot of money, but I have a lot of shoes. Shoe shopping is the main thing I do to deny death-which, I would argue to my husband, who daily reminds me that we are On A Budget, is a much less odious manifestation of this phenomenon than starting wars and killing people who don't agree with me, and safer than jumping out of airplanes to prove that I'm not old. It's like, Take that, death! I have more shoes than I could ever wear out, thus ensuring that they will continue on the journey long after you retire my mortal coil. And there's nothing like a pair of platform clogs to make you feel closer to G.o.d.

Still, it kind of sucks sometimes to not have quite the fashion freedom I had before I was a Formerly. If I wore some funkified getup one day just because I felt like it, people thought, Ah, youth, not Crazy bag lady or, arguably worse, Midlife crisis. I figure, if I can express myself with a wild or at least diverse collection of shoes, what's the harm? I find it's a great way to add a bit of fun to an outfit-ooh, orange suede!-without totally going off the rails on the crazy train. It would be very hard to get up and out of bed and do all the stupid things I have to do each day (like rinse the recycling and go sit in a cubicle and unsubscribe from email lists and find the other pink plate so my daughters quit arguing over the only one I can locate) if I were sitting there pondering my own mortality and how none of it really matters, anyway, right?

16.

Circling Vultures.

For years I've been watching those Heritage ads, the ones that urge you to buy insurance to pay for your "final expenses," so your family doesn't get left holding the urn. They begin, "If you were born between 1899 and 1950, you are eligible ..." or some such.

Tonight I was, as usual, listening to Chris Matthews rudely interrupt his female guests, when the commercial comes on: "If you were born between the years 1925 and 1968, you are eligible ..." Nineteen sixty-eight? Wait a sec, I was born in 1967! The screen then goes blue and flashes the years of eligibility in large, distinct white letters (because if you are between the ages of 40 and 85, you probably can't hear the TV, and your eyesight is no doubt headed south, along with your b.o.o.bs).

In the s.p.a.ce of 11 seconds, the ad made me angry, depressed and then cynical: Being included in the ad's target demographic is cla.s.sic sales strategy-the younger they hook you, the more money they make. It's kind of like the way tobacco companies used to market to children-if they got you as a teenager, they had you for life. I'll bet the Heritage people and the tobacco people would really hit it off at a mixer.

Then I swung back to being angry. Along with all the responsibilities Formerlies shoulder, with all the stress I have, I'm supposed to worry-right now-about helping my kids pay for the disposal of my corporal remains? They're six; I can't rely on them to dispose of their grilled cheese crusts in the kitchen garbage.

I have a will; we got it after we had children. But to so specifically plan for your own interment? Maybe, maybe, when I'm 65. Maybe. Life expectancy for women in this country is around 81. Odds are you've got almost as long as you've been alive again ahead of you to weigh the benefits of cremation versus having your head cryogenically frozen. Sorry, it's not time yet. I resent that anyone thinks people my age consider their longevity that tenuous.

Right now, women are spending their extra money (if they have any after their daughters' pa.s.sion for American Girl dolls has been satisfied) on Juvederm, infertility treatments and Spanx. Men are dropping their wads on flashy two-seater cars, $4,000 prost.i.tutes and Wii Fits. Okay, that's mean-some of them are spending them on American Girl dolls, and big diamonds for their wives to show their appreciation for the stress of all those infertility treatments. Many people my age have yet to start saving for retirement, let alone decide between mahogany or plain old plywood.

I don't know about you, but I've got a lot of living to do, even if it takes more than it used to in order to keep myself healthy and feeling good. And if, G.o.d forbid, I get hit by a bus on the way to Yogalates tomorrow, I hereby give my daughters and husband permission to cremate me, stick me in a shoe box and drop me down the garbage chute, like we did with the mouse we caught in the kitchen. I fully support their spending their money on pink sparkly shoes for their American Girl dolls and $4,000 prost.i.tutes, just as they did when I was alive. Obviously, I'm not planning on dying any time soon. My new old body, with its brigade of doctors waiting to charge, and its newly noisy quirks and embarra.s.sing leaks, works fine, for the most part.

I'm even getting over The Big Metabolic f.u.c.k You, and am somewhat relieved that hard-core self-improvement is pretty much off the table. My new mandate-that I might gently strive to stem the tide of my inevitable decrepitude, rather than staying on the thinner/buffer/faster path toward some arbitrary standard of perfection that I'd followed all these years-feels like something I can live with, and live with peacefully, now that I'm a Formerly. There was a time when I felt like nothing more than the composite of other people's opinions of me. Now I'm more aware of my value than I've ever been. Sure, one could always be thinner, buffer and get there faster, and I'm no exception, but my as-is is good to go, thank you! I'm just about done with the idea that personal fulfillment is always five more laps, five more lunges, five more pounds away. Physical self-improvement, the drumbeat I marched to in my teens, 20s and 30s, is no longer banging away quite so loudly in the background. For me, that was a losing proposition from the start, and it took me this long to realize it.

As often happens when the rare epiphany shines through the chaos of everyday life, all of a sudden I was tripping over evidence supporting my new way of looking at things. One night at a party, I was chatting with a therapist who treats women with food issues. I wondered aloud if some lucky ducks were simply spared TBMFU. She thought not, that it happens to the best of us, and said that in her experience, Formerly-aged women who are as thin as they were when they were in their 20s are generally very restrictive with their eating. "Apparently it's worth it to them to not eat much," she said with a shrug.

It was an offhanded comment made at a party, and a self-evident one at that. But to me, at that moment it struck me as genius in its simplicity. I could not recall, in decades of wanting to be thinner, ever once asking myself if it was worth the sacrifices it would entail in order for me to actually be thinner. The answer may well have been yes when I was younger, but now that I was an adult-a Formerly, no less-with much to think about aside from how many calories were in a single Twizzlers, I wasn't so sure. It takes effort to not eat when you're hungry, to constantly be figuring what you can and cannot put in your mouth based on whether or not you think it'll make you fat or what you may or may not want to eat later. Doing so takes up buckets of mental energy, which can be in short supply when you're already overextended, stressed out and mult.i.tasking.

So I asked myself, Self, is it worth it to completely forgo pretty much all the foodstuffs that bring you enormous joy, such as Nutella and pasta with pesto, in order to be thinner? Moreover, is it worth the thinking and tabulating and calculating and suffering through the guilty feelings you'll experience if you are unable to eat the way you truly must in order to be thin, now that you're a Formerly?

The answer was a big fat NO. Ha! No, it's not. It's really not.

Before that therapist made her comment, I'd simply viewed my inability to be at a lower weight than what's natural for me as my failing. Now I see it as something not worth expending my limited resources on.

Call it a gigantic cop-out, and I won't argue with you. But that perspective-I've made a reasoned decision not to invest in being as thin as I can possibly be because the tradeoff isn't worth it to me-has made me feel better about doing exactly the same thing I have been doing for years: specifically, eating Nutella and pasta with pesto (in reasonable quant.i.ties) and feeling like a big loser of a woman without a will. Now I'm eating Nutella and pasta with pesto (in reasonable quant.i.ties) and feeling fine about it.*

I'm not going to be truly thin, as in high school yearbook thin, but I wasn't anyway; desire is not enough to make it so-decades of wanting it really bad and yet not doing what it takes have certainly proved that-and besides, I was bulimic in high school. That was not good. If I'm going to eat what I want and be a few pounds more than I've arbitrarily decided I should be anyway, I may as well feel OK about it.

Lest you think I'm saying to h.e.l.l with it, your being-fit-and-healthy days are over so you may as well position your open mouth under the soft-serve machine and pull the lever, I'm not. I'm just saying I've found it helpful to quit kidding myself. Yes, my metabolism let me down when I hit Formerly. But more to the point, my life changed, so it's OK if my expectations change, too. The things you used to do to keep your metabolism firing on all cylinders may simply not be as appealing to you as they used to be. And that's fine! You might just not feel like running around like a lunatic every night, and stacking your dates (work late, drinks, dinner, club) like you did when you were younger. That used to be fun; it's not anymore. If you've got a partner, you're no longer burning the calories it takes to forage for a partner. There's too much relaxing and clinking of gla.s.ses to be done with friends or family in one soft cushy spot now that we're Formerlies. So you're 10 pounds heavier. Find some other way to exercise, eat reasonably and enjoy your life.

* I specify reasonable quant.i.ties for two reasons. For one, overdoing will obviously make you as big as a house, but also because I don't believe there is a permissible quant.i.ty of such foods for someone who wants to be high school yearbook thin as a post-TBMFU Formerly. A couple of spoonfuls of Ben & Jerry's and she'd have to fast for half a day. There's nothing reasonable about that.

17.

Having a Fit.

One morning, as I stood in front of the closet in my undies, obsessing about what to wear, and my children got later and later for school, something dawned on me. I am not sure why this critical truth took so many years to sink into my thick skull. (Perhaps it was all the fabulous hair I used to have. Did I mention I'm losing my hair?) Still, I'm so glad to finally be possessed of this knowledge and simply must share it with you, just in case you haven't heard the gospel. Here it is. Are you ready? Sit down. This is big.

It is the clothes' job to fit you. It is not your job to fit the clothes.

What's more, this has always been so, and no one saw fit to tell me, even as I spent a disproportionate amount of my mental capital trying to figure out how to make myself smaller. Yes, of course I was aware that clothes came in various sizes, which implied that some variation in body size was acceptable, normative, even. Yet like many young women, I operated under the mistaken belief that I had a designated numerical size, which was usually around two sizes smaller than my actual body, and it was my full-time job to try to make my body fit into "my" size. You don't even want to know what I did to try to achieve this goal.

And all the while, I could have simply bought bigger clothes. Sure, OK, I wouldn't look as thin in bigger clothes as I would if I were, in fact, "my" fantasy size that I never really am, anyway. But since I am a size, and I can't go around naked, don't I get to wear the nicest clothes I can find that fit my actual body?

The answer, of course, is yes, now that I'm a Formerly and not laboring under this truly cruel misconception. I no longer buy clothes that I hope or plan to one day fit into. The day is today. The time is now. I have been thin and unhappy, and heavier and happy. I have proven to myself time and again that one thing has little to do with the other, despite all the "I lost weight and now my husband loves me and my life is perfect" ads you see to sell you diet products. I'm wearing clothes that fit, d.a.m.n it. And it feels, well, like I can breathe again.

18.

Married, with Att.i.tude.

I am pro s.e.x. That's my official stance, and since I started having it in my teens, I have never wavered. I think s.e.x, when everyone involved is happy to be involved, is one of the delightful perks of being human. In theory, I enjoy it very much.

In practice, things are a bit more complicated. Not only must I be relaxed, well fed, but not bloated, and not p.i.s.sy with my husband about one of the half-dozen petty misunderstandings that take place in a day, but the children must be in deep REM sleep, there must be no laundry, bills or naked Barbies on the bed on which I am to have s.e.x and all computers, cell phones and pagers must be turned off and stowed properly. I'd prefer not to be within a week of the start of my period, be on deadline or feel fat, although I can work around these. The national terror threat-level alert must be yellow or below. Oh, and I also have to be awake, which, after work and kids and everything else, is unlikely after 10:00 PM. And this doesn't take into account whether Mad Men is on TV, or any of my husband's possible impediments, which, thankfully, are many fewer than mine or we'd never do it at all.

When it does happen, I invariably catch my breath, look over at Paul and say something like, "That was awesome! We should do it more often."

Libido-snuffing lifestyle notwithstanding, I do indeed like s.e.x, even as I have less and less time and energy for it. Years of repet.i.tion have made me pretty darn adept and, even with my brand-new body image issues, more comfortable asking for or, failing that, simply taking what I want in bed. By this time, I'm less concerned with whether I'm doing it "right"-there is no right-and what the guy (in my case, my husband) is "secretly" thinking (which, given the relative rarity of the event, is probably FINALLY!).

The best part about s.e.x nowadays is that the whole endeavor feels less performative than it did when I was younger, before I fully understood that nothing was expected of me other than to absorb and reciprocate pleasure. When I was in my 20s, I was ultra-conscious of how I presented during s.e.x, like I was playacting some movie-influenced role of "s.e.xy partner," which left me focused on how I was perceived, instead of how I felt. Feeling your way through s.e.x, of course, leads to much better s.e.x for you and your partner. I'm also much less worried about impugning Paul's skill by pitching in in a hands-on way if the situation calls for it. As my friend Keisha puts it, "If I need to, I go ahead and open my own fortune cookie."

Of course, in order to be in the position to have your fortune cookie opened by you or anyone else, you have to have ordered in, and kids are a huge obstacle to even looking at the menu. Even at their most adorable and rewarding, they will suck the life out of you during the day. And at night, there's nothing like a groggy child wandering in for some water or complaining of an octopus under her bed just when things might be getting off the ground.

Somehow, making sure our s.e.x life doesn't dwindle to nothing feels like one of my many responsibilities, on par with making sure the car payments are up-to-date, and replenishing the paper towel supply. I sometimes think, I simply need to make it a priority. In countless magazine articles over the years, I've quoted dozens of experts about the importance of putting your s.e.x life first.

It's not terrible advice, but I have never been quite able to take it myself. When I consciously think of s.e.x as something I need to better apply myself to, as if I were back in junior high French, I feel overwhelmed and remiss, which further grinds any smoldering spark into the pavement like a spent cigarette. s.e.x needs to be a priority. Absolutely. But, well, what isn't a priority, really? My children are usually my first priority, along with work, so said children may eat and wear bejeweled Sketchers high-tops, and because I love it. I need to see my friends every so often, and then there's exercise, sleep and "me" time, which are essential to my health and sanity, without which the entire house of cards scatters to the wind. And then there are the countless other things my husband and I like to do together, which feel important for our relationship and knit us together in intimacy-such as, you know, having the occasional conversation. s.e.x is a priority, yes, but a priority among many priorities I must juggle, which often means it has to get in line. How many things can be critical at once without your head exploding or something falling by the wayside? So I try to fit it in where it fits, without taking it on as yet another obligation, one that I will no doubt fail to deliver on from time to time. Guilt is about the least s.e.xy thing I can think of, aside from leprosy.

I'm told that as kids get older, s.e.x starts to feel less like something that needs to be wedged in between wash cycles, and so becomes more a natural part of life again. I'm counting on it. Of course, depending on when and if you had children, a Formerly's s.e.x life might be just roaring. "We've been at it like bunnies," my friend Danielle, whose husband just had a vasectomy and whose children are in school, confided (and here I am blabbing it!). "Once the kids are a little older, and you don't always feel like, Put your own f.u.c.king socks on, things really lighten up and you can enjoy your spouse again. The more the kids can do for themselves, the more you can start thinking about yourself as a person. If you can look at yourself as a person, you can actually give something to your spouse." I can see flickers of a s.e.xier future on the horizon.

My informal survey would seem to indicate that Formerlies, including moms, generally like s.e.x, in theory if not in practice, and that's why I just have to say that terms like "MILF" and "cougar" really wind my watch. That women who are no longer 21 and also might be parents enjoy s.e.x should not be headline news, but somehow, the world seems perpetually shocked at the concept. That whole Madonna/wh.o.r.e thing dies hard (the Freudian paradigm, not the singer).

Come to think of it, the term "MILF" grosses me out. "MILF" sounds like milk, which, in the context of motherhood, makes me think of breast-feeding. That reminds me of when I had swollen, leaky b.o.o.bs and sore nipples and had to tote a heavy, noisy breast pump to the office after sleeping a total of four hours at night. The last thought on my mind during the nursing era was of doing it with anybody-least of all a guy who would use the term "MILF." I picture some loser at the beach clutching a beer cozy and rating moms as they walk by his lawn chair on the way to taking their toddler to the potty.

I know of many a Formerly who doesn't share my point of view on "MILF," preferring to accept the deeply embedded compliment that they are still desirable, or at least conceived of in a s.e.xual context. I get that. I usually take the unsolicited thumbs-up where I find it, now that I find it way less than I used to. Still, I can't get past the idea that the very use of "MILF" implies that attractive mothers are such a freaky fringe concept that it requires a separate acronym.

A married friend of mine said she felt complimented when some young guys in a bar she ducked into to pee called her a cougar. But to me, "cougar" (growwwlll!) is even ickier, connoting a s.e.xually rapacious, insatiable, practically pedophilic older woman, thrusting her unwanted attentions and enormous Wonderbra'd bosoms on wide-eyed young men, or trawling for gigolos on the beaches of Kenya on s.e.x safaris with her like-libidoed girlfriends. I don't know any women of any age who "prowl" for s.e.x, and while some surely exist, they're a tiny, bored minority who probably don't have a decent s.e.x-toy shop nearby.

For the single Formerlies I know, it's more like, interested in finding someone to hook up with, yes. She might make an effort to go out, hopeful of meeting someone desirable who finds her likewise so they can act on their mutual attraction. If he (or she) happens to be younger than she is, that won't necessarily disqualify him, especially if he looks like he may know what he's doing. But prowl for s.e.x? Who has time? Who has energy? Please. The word "cougar" signifies that a not-young woman who might actually want to have s.e.x is so uncivilized that she belongs in a National Geographic wildlife doc.u.mentary instead of on a bar stool near you.

To my knowledge, I've never been called a MILF. This could be because no one other than my husband wants to f.u.c.k me. I have considered that. But given that men aren't particularly particular, I'm thinking it's because those I come into contact with are too polite to use a term like that, at least within my hearing. And for that, I'm grateful.

I do, however, appreciate when some random person finds me attractive, as does my friend Amy (agrees with me, that is; although I'd like to think she finds me cute). Still, there's something palpably different about the experience now that she's been with her husband 12 years. "About twice a year I become dimly aware that some guy is almost hitting on me," Amy told me a while back. "Once the shock and surprise and surrealness wears off, I get a faint wash of gratefulness, drowned out by a motherly, Awww, isn't that sweet." When it happens to me-maybe six times a year, but who's counting?-I feel jazzed, and am comforted that my market value hasn't plummeted too low. I'm not thinking of selling-I'm happy where I am and my marriage has lots of potential for expansion-but I'm not dead, either.

To be sure, that external affirmation from men, which I used to take for granted like the air I breathed, comes my way less frequently. Fortunately, I've learned that unlike the air I breathe, I can live without it, and it means much less to me now that I am solid in that which I offer the world and my husband and others I love. Like sugar, which is horrifically difficult to cut back on but which I've mostly succeeded at, I don't need it like I used to.

Though, like sugar, there is no perfect subst.i.tute. In the elevator at my office the other morning, this young messenger was staring at me. Our building is old and the elevator slow. His gaze was lingering, his grin rather ... sly. He couldn't be ... nah. Looking at me? Weird, I thought. Wait, a full-on smile, with teeth and everything. I thought I saw his eyes dart down to my chest. He was checking me out! I pressed the b.u.t.ton for my floor and he moved beside me, looking again at my chest. I was wearing a coat, so it didn't feel too sleazy. Wow. I guess I still have it, at least a little, I thought, as the elevator lifted off. Check me the eff out! As I strode off the elevator, I felt caffeinated by my harmless ego boost, and took a private pride in my own still-hotness.

Then I got to my office and hung up my coat. There on the right b.o.o.b area was the neon green adhesive foam "M" that Sasha stuck on me this morning as I was leaving her cla.s.sroom. "M" for mommy. "M" for moron. "M" for My G.o.d, woman, did you think to look in the MIRROR? Something else I don't do as often as I used to.

I met my husband, as I mentioned, on the subway when I was in my mid-20s; proof, if all my photo alb.u.ms were to be destroyed in a fire, that I was at one time hot. I was, you'll recall, "I meet men on the train" hot. And he was adorable-ruddy-cheeked, with curly auburn hair, smiling brown eyes and a naturally broad, buff, athletic body.

Fifteen-plus years later, he's standing in front of the mirror in our bedroom in his boxer briefs and dress socks, flexing his biceps and asking me, "How're my guns?" That's the male Formerly's version of What if this part here were just, like, up here? I am on the bed, braless and unshowered, the moustache bleach on my upper lip preventing me from answering. "Yrrr guns looooo gggrrraay, huunnyy," I manage to eke out through my teeth as I pantomime a Mr. Universe pose and throw him the thumbs-up. In fact, they do, to me. Then he gets into bed, I rinse my lip, we watch Keith Olbermann, and fall asleep, exhausted from the day and the kids and Keith's spitting vitriol, and from just being us.

A younger, unmarried person might see the above scene as an ill.u.s.tration of what a slog marriage is, or as evidence of the oft-repeated point that the spark fizzles once you've been together awhile. For sure, what I just described is hardly going to send anyone searching for the his-and-hers K-Y. But what I see in that scene-what I felt as I partic.i.p.ated in it-was an abiding sense of intimacy and love and companionship, free of pressure to be anyone other than me, just as I am, tending to what Sasha calls my girlstache. I'm with the guy I can laugh with, the guy who would find a way to tell me honestly that he thought I looked nice even if my girlstache spread up the sides of my face like a she-wolf. He loves me that much.

Paul and I haven't been together for 15 straight years. We dated after meeting that day on the train, but, hot as I was, I torched him and moved on to my long and rather silly romantic career, involving (incomplete list) a few writers, a trainer, a "branding specialist," a historian and a ballerino, several percussionists and grad students, an SAT tutoring magnate, a lighting designer, numerous journalists and at least one male nurse. (The man I opted for over Paul back then was obsessed with futzing around in a computer lab and spent most of his time on some ridiculous nascent pursuit called "the Internet and computer animation." Clearly, that was going nowhere.) Most of these guys, I recognize now, were unwitting foils to my self-discovery. I learned a lot from them, primarily how ill-prepared I was at the time to settle down myself.

Eventually, at 34, I remet Paul, at a wedding of mutual friends, and within 18 months we were married. We are in the unique situation to have dated when we were in our mid-20s and then again when we were older. By the time we got together for keeps, both of us were fully adults, and good and set in our ways. Still, the shift to Formerly, which took place after we were married a few years, has brought subtle changes.

For me, this has mostly to do with feeling, in the words of the immortal Popeye, that I yam what I yam. I have felt this way for a long time, since before I was with my husband, but now that I'm a Formerly, it has a less defiant, defensive quality, because it no longer seems that what I am is at risk of being diminished by the man I'm with. It did back when we were first married, and it led to various territorial skirmishes. Marriage is about union, and as much as I wanted to marry Paul, I was on guard that uniting didn't mean merging and thus ceasing to exist. Now that what I am is completely mine, now that I'm completely me, that sense of self could no more get lost than my uterus could fall out from between my legs without my noticing it.

It's a relief to feel I can go about negotiating closeness with another vulnerable, imperfect human with the knowledge that who I am will not be suppressed or compromised into nothingness. That's a gift that time has given. I'm not saying that I compromise in my marriage less than I used to. In fact, I compromise more, as does my husband. Just not about who I am, something I did as unthinkingly as wearing stupid shoes when I was younger.

From my current vantage, I find some of the stuff I did in the name of love rather horrifying, but clearly, self-abnegating behavior was not my sole province. I have a newish friend, Diana, who is one of the coolest, most together, non-doormat-type women I know. I guess I a.s.sumed she popped out of her mother's womb self-actualized, but that, too, seems to be a by-product of living and loving for as long as we have. One thing she admitted she did reminded me of the type of advice I read in women's magazines when I was a teenager: "Guys like girls who share their interests, so act interested!" When, at 25, Diana first started dating the man who later became her husband, she professed an all-consuming pa.s.sion for mountain-biking, because he mentioned that he liked it. She then dropped $1,500 for a mountain bike to join him on the trails. It wasn't until after they'd been together for a couple of years that she felt comfortable saying that not only did she not enjoy mountain-biking, but that it did a real number on her pubic bone. "I treated dating like a job interview-I didn't know at the interview if I wanted the job, but I acted as if because I wanted the offer," she told me. The bike's now on Craigslist, along with, no doubt, countless other objects other Formerlies have decided are no longer necessary to further their purposes. Knowing Diana, she'll probably spend the money she makes on something she really enjoys, like a spa day.

What I did when I was in my 20s was similar to Diana: I was all too quick to hand over aspects of myself for the sake of whatever relationship I was in. I didn't have a strong enough sense of myself to stand firm for what I wanted-indeed, sometimes I didn't even think to ask myself what I wanted. I'd let the guy set the terms-how serious things were, how often we'd see each other-as if I were completely flexible. I wasn't, but I was afraid my need was too vast, too off-putting to express. It was only after he was on the hook that I allowed myself to examine my catch. As often as not, I'd realize he wasn't such a catch after all and I'd throw him back, apparently inexplicably, twitching as he hit the water. Not that I understood any of this at the time; I mostly just walked around bewildered, hurting people or getting hurt, and then doing it again. For years there were entire neighborhoods of New York City I'd have to avoid, for fear of running into one of my ex-fish. Now I can see that I didn't know myself well enough to share myself.

Later, in my early 30s, I maybe overcorrected a little-I had a brief hard-a.s.s phase, during which I carried a figurative "what I'm looking for" checklist on a clipboard-before doing what most people do: muddle through figuring out how to be part of a pair in love and still be yourself. Eventually I got together with Paul. And now in the Formerly years, since my sense of who I am feels less tenuous and less a.s.sailed and more of a simple fact of life, I rarely need to defend it against perceived onslaughts. In our case, it makes it easier to see the other person's point of view.

Like, I'm much more open than Paul is. Just ask and you'll know which medications I've taken, whether I'm currently in therapy and why I prefer Playtex to o.b. tampons. OK, maybe not the last one, but you get the idea. I can't be bothered to keep things I'm not ashamed of a secret, and it seems to make other people more comfortable talking about sometimes taboo stuff, too. Years ago, Paul would grimace when I spoke about personal things at a party, and later, in the car home say, "Do you really think you should have said that?" I'd get defensive and say, "Obviously I thought I should say that because I DID say it." I'd then lay out my case for why what I said was fine and how I'm a highly socially successful human being and have rarely offended anyone, and what the h.e.l.l, did I have to act like the Queen of England, for chrissakes, and who appointed him my personal censor, anyway?

I felt as if he was saying that my entire personality was wrong and offensive and that he needed me to be someone else. If such an exchange were to happen now (which it likely wouldn't because he's used to my big mouth and trusts me not to reveal his private affairs, like the time he-Just kidding!), I'd simply raise an eyebrow at him. I know I am less private than him-than most people, in fact-but it works for me. If what I say sometimes embarra.s.ses him, it means he has a lower threshold for public revelation than I do, not that I'm a big boorish (Formerly Hot) mess. When I look at it that way, I don't feel as defensive, and I'm able to be sensitive to his discomfort and maybe not go into my whole birth control history with his mother.

Of course, this level of understanding could simply be because I've been married for a while now, and I feel more secure. It's hard to tease out what changes in a relationship are due to being a wise Formerly and which are due to simply having figured out the best way not to act on the impulse to grab a letter opener and inflict multiple puncture wounds on one's partner (not that I've ever thought about that). I know for me, nowadays, the more "right" I think I am, the less I need to fight about it and get my husband to agree with me.

Another friend of mind, Jenna, who has been married 10 years, has come to something similar. "Before, it wasn't so much that I needed to be RIGHT as that I felt like we needed to agree-that it was fundamental to our relationship. How can I live with a man forever who thinks THIS while I think THAT???" Today Jenna gives less of a hoot what people in general think of her, and that includes her husband, in the best possible way. "When we fight," she says, "I think we both mostly just want to be heard. If I get that from him, I don't need to agree or be right." Personally, I find that yelling ensures you get heard, so that's my first resort. Kidding. Another thing I've learned: The opposite is true.

I love being married to my husband, in particular, but if G.o.d forbid something were to happen to him, I highly doubt I'd do it again. For one thing, my husband has ruined me for anyone else-I can't imagine another man trying as hard to make me happy or being as patient with my faults. But the big reason is that marriage breaks your b.a.l.l.s. It's far harder than parenthood, at least for me. Sarah, divorced when she was 32, is dating, but with no real urgency or momentum. And while she'd like to meet someone-regular s.e.x is something she misses, the man hunt is not the all-consuming focus of her limited free time, as it might be for someone who has never been married. This is partly because at 43 she's reconciled to not having biological children, and so has no deadlines to beat.

Being a Formerly usually means that your life experience has disabused you of any romantic fantasies of being whisked away from the icky parts of life, least of all by another person, let alone one on a white steed. "Having been married, I know that there's nothing magical about it-there's nothing that's going to magically change when you say 'I do,'" Sarah explained. No joke. After having slogged through some of the harder times in my marriage, I've come to the same conclusion. In fact, you only become more yourself the longer you're with someone, and this realization-that real life is not always as sparkly as the kind of fantasies I had about love when I was younger-is richer and more reliable. As Sarah put it (I swear the girl should be an oracle, or at least a life coach): "I know that whether I'm alone or with a partner, I'll have joys and disappointments. They'll be different ones if I'm not with someone, but they won't be fewer." I do believe she's right.

If a single Formerly actively wants a partner, of course, the apparent dearth of decent men doesn't make it easy. It's a nationwide mystery and a source of endless speculation where the ones who aren't married, aren't fatally flawed and are looking to be in a relationship congregate. The romantic possibilities don't feel endless, as they did when we were all in college. Another friend of mine, let's call her Helene, has been divorced for five years and is dating in earnest. She told me, with a roll of her eyes, "Instead of asking a guy where he lives or where he went to summer camp, it is more like, When you say you're separated, does that mean you still live with your wife and you just don't sleep with her anymore?" Part of what's tough about it is that many people are paired off, or there's a glaring reason they're not. Not to mention that guys date down in terms of age, whereas, cougar stereotype to the contrary, women generally prefer their more mature peers.

But back to Sarah. Spending time with her and hearing her opinions on the various men she has dated recently has made me aware of something that may explain the relative dearth of decent guys at our age: an unwillingness to bend to the point of discomfort, to, say, become involved in a relationship that requires you to change your already jam-packed, lovely, rich life too much. She is the walking, talking, good-life-living embodiment of what makes being this age so wonderful-knowing yourself, not caring much what others think, and a hard-won sense of confidence and independence. But needing so little can make remaining unattached way more appealing than trying to cram a round relationship into a square hole. There's no moving to Pittsburgh for a year while he finishes med school, and there's no being with someone you hope will improve with time. Sarah said: "Things work really well now, and there is so much that's fulfilling to me already, so to bring someone into my life, he has to add to it." Sarah inspires the h.e.l.l out of me, even though I am married.

The truth is, I always thought the people I was with when I was younger added to my life-why would anyone go out with someone who doesn't? It was just that the specific things they added-drama, intensity, wild anecdotes I could share about the things they wanted me to call them in bed-weren't what I needed, and it took me a long time to realize that. Many of the men I dated, of course, were wonderful, but the good things they contributed weren't enough to balance out what I felt they were taking away. Now that we're all older, we want a lot from the people we're with, because in many ways we need less. After a date with a perfectly nice guy, in which she came away with a vague sense of why his last relationship didn't work out, Sarah said, "I am not willing to commit to someone's potential anymore." The handful of friends I know who have gotten separated or divorced have done so because the guy they thought they'd married didn't live up to his potential, and being alone (and free to look for someone else) was preferable.

Lest this sounds like the guy needs to be perfect, that's not what I mean. I never thought I'd be married to a guy who eats all but one bite of cottage cheese and puts it back in the fridge, because-my theory-being the kind of guy who snarfs all the cottage cheese doesn't fit in with his self-image. (Of course, I don't realize we're out until it's too late for me to get any.) Knowing your own foibles can make you more tolerant of others', and I know I do things he finds equally irritating. Shocking, I know.

But we're talking foibles, not major obstacles to being a successful human being-such as having a primary care doctor, an income or a viable plan for generating one, or being able to accept that if, by age 42, his band hasn't broken through, then making music is merely a fun hobby-that a guy isn't taking responsibility for. I love the way Sarah explains it (clearly she's devoted no small amount of thought to this): "We're at midlife, so he needs to be at least midway toward living the kind of life he wants." Given the number of guys she eschews, that would seem to mean she has high standards, but it doesn't sound that way to me.

The flip side of having such a full life without a partner is that it can be hard to clear out emotional closet s.p.a.ce for one. But having been around the block more than your average 25-year-old makes it easier to spot the right person when he does happen by (and friends tell me that you have fewer superficial deal-breakers, like he must surpa.s.s your height in heels by at least two inches). That's what happened with my never-married friend Andrea, who last year, after much dating, finally met her life partner. She knows he's right for her because "In every relationship I was in, I would jump through a million hoops to make it work," she told me. Her guy fits into her life and she to his-she needn't change hers in ways that are important to her for the sake of staying together. Now she knows that while relationships take work, "Not everything needs to feel like work. Your life should feel like it's opening a bit because of this person, not closing."

I feel lucky to have realized this in my 30s, and so knew to grab Paul when I had the (second) opportunity. And with him I feel like my life is opening. And that's why we're still together-that, and the fact that at this age, I know it's mostly my job to keep my own life feeling full of possibility. I think that's why Sarah is happy, despite not having met the right guy. "I want to meet someone, yes, but I want a lot of things." She shrugs. "It's kind of a relief-if you've got the resources to have a happy life, you will have one. It's nice being less invested in the outcome."

Not every Formerly is so circ.u.mspect, of course. Some single women feel as if it's now or never, and the married ones are sometimes not content with their lot. After a few drinks, I know more than a few women who fret half-jokingly that they can't believe their husbands are the last people they're ever going to have s.e.x with. To borrow a phrase from He's Not That Into You, they don't want to "waste their pretty" on the men they married! They say, "I look good now, and that won't last forever, so if I'm going to cheat, I'd better get on it." They are mostly kidding, of course, but some probably feel like a part of their lives that they miss is being closed off by their relationships, or in some way the relationship is not doing it for them. That happens, especially because what you and your partner (who is probably also hitting Formerly right about now) need can change over time. No amount of hard-won wisdom and maturity can protect you from s.h.i.t happening, or from the fact that unless you're Julia Child (who-according to the movie Julie and Julia, anyway-had one of those rare, enviable marriages in which she and her husband only found each other more endearingly quirky over time), spending every day with the same, imperfect person can sometimes be ... just what it is.

But knowing yourself, and knowing what you need, gives you a huge leg up when it comes to love, and keeps you from bailing at the first or 15th sign of blah-ness. Amy jokingly bemoaned the tepid romance in her marriage, but then clarified: "I used to think romance was important. Now I know that having a guy who will-without any whining whatsoever-go without sleep all night to stay up with you when you've had a horrible sinus surgery and will then drive you to the hospital in the morning in a snowstorm so they can fix it, that's what's important."

That, and someone who thinks you're s.e.xy even with moustache bleach on your lip.