I was born with it and had it most of my life, then, poof! One day it vanished. I know exactly when it happened, too. That moment was devastating; it was the moment when my youth disappeared.

I had heard a song on the radio, nothing profound, just a rockin’ pop song that made me happy—made me want to dance. I had to have it, but I didn’t know the name. SoundHound hadn’t been developed yet, so I had to rely on an experienced salesperson at the now defunct Borders Books and Music at The Public Market in Emeryville, to interpret my description of the song lyrically and melodically. It was at that exact moment as I stood in the aisle with the sales “Dude,” trying to describe the genre (dance), the beat (moderate), and the lyrics (indecipherable) that I realized I had become “that person.” You know, that older person who doesn’t know the band’s name, or the difference between (Dude asked) “acid, house, trance, techno, or electronica?” It was just dance music to me. It was the stuff of toe-tapping and head-bobbing, and I had no idea there were so many sub-genres.

So there it was. Standing in the aisle amid rows of CDs, an old person trying to describe a cool song she wanted to buy, but couldn’t, because she didn’t have the language to articulate her needs. She was, wait for it—40!

I was awash with emotion. I kept trying to describe my song, “You know which one I’m describing, right? It’s the one in that car commercial.” The more I tried, the more desperate I became. I needed to find that album, not because I loved that one song on the radio, not because I had teenage angst and my life would be ruined if I didn’t have it, but because it became symbolic of my youth. Finding that song would be proof that I wasn’t old and that I was not of a different generation; rather I was a contemporary.

So the more I tried to describe the song, the sadder I felt. The look of pity on the face of the Dude, the rock-star wannabe, is engrained in my mind. My younger self stood beside me and laughed, “You! You’re pathetic. You’re like mom was when she bought you The Monkeys rather than The Beatles because, ‘Weren’t they pretty much the same?’ ” My frustration mounted and my eyes welled up with tears, “Thank you. I’ll just keep looking,” I said to the Dude. I fumbled through the rack for a minute longer and made a hasty exit out of the store. I plunked myself in my car and allowed the tears to stream. It was then that I embarked on the five stages of grief.

As I sat there, alone, I tried to figure out how this could have happened. When did I get a younger self who could stand beside me and deride me? When did I become pitiful? When did I become old?

I took stock of my life. I married at 30, chose not to have kids, had lots of friends, travelled extensively, and did fun stuff. Heck, I even married a long-haired musician. I thought that gave me youth by extension, plus a cool factor of Ten-X. But I was mistaken, and now I was in a veritable age purgatory.

Wait, I thought, I’m not old! Isn’t 40 the new 30? Of course I knew I wasn’t young anymore. I thought of the scene in When Harry Met Sally. Meg Ryan’s character crying to Billy Crystal’s character, “I’m going to be 40.” “When?” he asks. “Someday,” she cries.

So, maybe that’s it. Maybe the Borders Books … the unfindable song … the Dude … was my When Harry Met Sally scene. It crystalized the milestone age. Forty. More magazine was created for the demographic of women 40 and up. It must be true that I was not alone in the realization that youth disappears when you hit that specific age. I keep up on trends. I do what I can to “maintain a youthful appearance.” I plump, I inject, I Fitbit myself to 10,000 steps a day. But no matter how hard I try, there is simply no denying that when youth hits the road, she ain’t never coming back.

Today, I am in my early 50s and still plumping and Botoxing. I’ve passed through age purgatory, no longer in denial. I’ve moved into acceptance. I have come to realize that most of my colleagues at work are young enough to be my children. I accept that it’s not cool to invite the older lady to happy hour. I’m content to have dinner in, or out. I recognize that the verb “clubbing” is no longer a part of my lexicon. I tell my work colleagues about the famous musicians my husband plays with to blank stares or polite head nods. I’m OK with that. And now I’m OK with the fact that my youth disappeared. I’m still not OK with the way that little shit at Borders looked at me, though.

And, by the way, the name of the song is “Start the Commotion” by The Wiseguys and it was used in a Mitsubishi Eclipse car ad. So, take that, Dude! Take that, Youth!  Now, how do those lyrics go again?

————
Wendy Winter, born and raised in the Bay Area, works for a leading health-care company and is married to a musician.