Not ready for prime time

When is a woman in the prime of life? I suspect that any woman who has time to ponder the question has already passed her prime.

I keep hearing on the news that Kamala Harris is proof that a woman in her 60s can be in her prime, and last week my comedy students heard Hannah Gadsby insisting that "A 17-year-old girl is never, ever, ever in her prime."

"I am in my prime," she adds. "Would you test your strength out on me?"

Hannah Gadsby was 40 when she said that in her comedy special Nanette, and no, given the fierceness on display in that performance, I would not test my strength out on her. But then I am hardly in my prime. Am I?

In hindsight I agree that I was not in my prime at 17. I was smart enough and full of ambition, but I had bad skin and too much flab and a self-image that inspired suicidal feelings on a regular basis, which didn't make me much different from most of my friends. What I had a lot of at 17 was potential. 

When I was in college and grad school I was too busy to wonder whether I might be in my prime, and as a young mother I was pouring my energy and creativity into every little thing my children did, so if I was in my prime, I couldn't have paused long enough to enjoy it.

I might have been in my prime in my mid-to-late 40s, when I was making strides in my career, writing and teaching and delivering papers, getting my kids through college and devoting myself to creative projects; physically I was in better shape than ever, except I was not aware at the time that my physical strength was masking the growth of an insidious cancer. Trust me, I didn't sit in the cancer center's chemotherapy suite with an IV in my arm pondering whether this might be the prime of life. 

These days my mind might be in its prime but my body is falling apart. In the classroom I feel alive and alert, able to think on my feet and come up with useful insights; at the computer my fingers fly across the keyboard, barely able to keep up with the creative flow. But a long day of running from classes to meetings to frustrating tasks leaves me wanting to curl up on the floor in a fetal position and cry. I go for a walk in the woods and feel great, but then after a 24-minute drive to campus, my legs are so stiff I have trouble getting out of the car and walking half a block to my office.

I've used up much of that potential that seemed so endless when I was 17, but I haven't quite reached the pinnacle of success I'd dreamed of back then. But I haven't given up trying either. If I can't identify the prime of life, maybe that's because it's still on the horizon, beckoning me onward. If I ever reach my prime, I hope I still have the energy to realize that I've arrived.