The Heroine's Midlife Journey

The other day while working in the library, I had a rite-of-passage-moment so folklorically poignant, it would have made Joseph Campbell’s eyes shimmer with tears: I was called a fairy godmother instead of a fairy. For a bit of context, I wear whimsical fantasy-inspired clothes to work every day. I have a flower crown for every day of the week and beyond. So I’ve grown used to hearing people stumble through a kind compliment for my “flower thing on your head,” asking what special event is happening (”just life!”), or trying to fit me into a slot: “You look like you’re going to Ohio Renaissance Faire!” “You look like you’re from a fairy tale!” And one time, “You look like Jesus!” (?!?!) I’ve grown to rather enjoy the social experiment of what people will try to use to define me, or how they will respond.

But this was the first time I got called a “fairy godmother.” I think perhaps the complimenter might have seen something on my face (I’m terrible at hiding emotions) because they quickly pivoted and said “or a fairy!” which almost made it worse because it was like a teenager mis-guessing your age as older than you are and then quickly changing it to “I mean 25!” I could practically hear the brakes squeal as they panicked.

(Art by Brian Froud from Widdershins exhibit)

Not that there is anything wrong with being the fairy godmother. Certainly not. There is a group of six women artists in a small Devon village I love who call themselves as such, and those ladies are among the most inspiring of my entire existence. I just...didn’t realize I was there yet, even though the travel lines are starting to etch themselves across my face. But there are no road maps for womanhood on how to navigate the hero’s journey of getting older. What are the landmarks of transitioning from youth to middle age to crone? What can we pack into our satchel and carry with us, and what do we have to leave behind? My style and my lifestyle have always been adapted from fairy tale maidens. Maidens who are now, goddess help me, most often depicted in art and stories as half my age or more.

The lack of landmarks leaves me confused and I wonder when *I* will feel different. Will there be a (hot) flash of realization where I start to relate more to the wise sorceress or elder from fairy tales instead of the young maiden protagonist? What if I never do? Will that mean I’m being unhealthy, irrational, irresponsible? Not accepting or embracing my new phase of life? But here I stand in my flower crowns and swishy skirts, gluing faerie wings onto newly-needed reading glasses I’ve painted with glitter nail polish.

(No really, here they are)

Honestly, in case you can’t tell by my tone, most of me is pretty proud of being as whimsical as I am regardless of age. But still I lament at the lack of fairy tale or modern societal guidance in how to handle this phase of womanhood. Am I doing it right? Is there only one right way? A handful? And wasn’t I supposed to know more about who I am by now? To have accomplished more? Wasn’t I supposed to have learned to care less what other people think? To not feel self-conscious when I order a meal alone?

(Art by William Henry Margetson)

Maybe the answer is to just keep doing what I’m doing. I may be in uncharted territory for what as I get older may make others smile, versus what will make them sneer and whisper “grow up” to themselves, but I can always just keep using my own joy as a landmark to look to. Someone will always have negative things to say. Only I get to live my life and it’s already too short to waste time censoring. Whimsy has no age limit, magic is all around us no matter if we are five or seventy-five. It just grows harder, as we progress further into the story of our lives both good and bad, heavy and light, to find people at the older end of the spectrum who can still see the wonders, the magic. Life can weigh you down, and it takes a conscious resolve to remain whimsical. Maybe this is the most monumental sign of mature strength I can boast I have in my life: I acknowledge that it gets harder, but intentionally refuse to lose my open fancifulness.

I find pride in the fact that I even recognized this symbolic rite of passage-moment. Perhaps for most, the “oh my goodness am I an old person now” moment comes when you’re called “ma’am” instead of “miss” by the bagger at the grocery store. But I received such a whimsical transitional moment of “fairy godmother” instead of “faerie” because I dress like I’m from a fairy tale. And that’s the sort of interactions, the sort of life, that I wouldn’t trade for a thousand business suits, or whatever the “appropriate attire” for a middle-aged woman is these days.

So I will do my best to embrace these signs of getting older. I’ll add wrinkle exercises to my repertoire, crinkling my face in a smile to get the radiating stars under my inner eyes that I love so much. I’ll acknowledge I’m not the same age as the fairy tale maiden anymore, but I’ll also remember that fairy tales also aren’t just for maidens. C.S. Lewis once said “some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again.” The joke is on everyone else: I never stopped.

(art by Brian Froud)