The Middle Years Are the Riddle Years

Like any other woman who has pondered things a fair amount,
I feel — in every age-group — the correct behavior’s paramount.
But still, a girl grows weary of the endless rearranging.
It s fine, of course, to act your age — except your age keeps changing.

Although the early twenties, when you’re cute and young and bridal,
Convey the vague impression that the passing years are idle . . .
You sense your first uneasiness when one day — acting flirty —
You find you’re being silly for a matron Pushing Thirty.

Whereat you hit the thirties (which is quite another group again)
And just get used to Worldly Ways, when, wham! You’re in the soup again.
For Sister, after thirty-five, before the Easy Fracture Age,
You reach the hardest time of all to know the way to acture age.

There comes this big decision: should you try to cling tenaciously
To glamour and The Youthful Look . . . or just grow older graciously?
Should you be drab and motherly (the choice is quite a Hellish one)
Or choose the more exhausting course, the Aging-Southern-Belle-ish one?

If you submit to Cuban heels and scalloped hairdos docilely,
Your children say you’re ancient but you’re not exactly fossil-y;
And if you ski and dance the Twist— and try to simply BE yourself,
Your offspring mutter scathingly Good Heavens you should SEE yourself.

The problem’s not the same for men. A youngish role stays peachy
For seasoned types like Cary Grant, John Wayne, or Don Ameche.
But women have to watch the clock and see an hour or era go
And know which year they shouldn’t act the way they did a year ago.

For Father Time’s a tricky sort, who wields a whip to flagellate
The girl who grows too early old or works at seeming agile late.