The secret superpower of middle age: part two
Yes, nowadays my default stance is that of handing the other person a verbal shovel and listening whilst they dig themselves into that proverbial hole ...
Here it is. The promised Part Two.
As I was writing Part One a couple of weeks ago, I was thinking about this, knowing that it had to be addressed separately and knowing also that it was marvellously real – for me anyway. But I’m always interested. Is it just me? Has anyone reading this experienced something similar? Does anyone feel the same? If you have I’d love to hear, leave a comment below.
So, I’m going to demonstrate Part Two, by telling you about a phone conversation I had with an estate agent around a year ago. I remember it very well, in fact I think I’ll remember it as long as I remember my name.
We were selling out house. The estate agent (realtor) came around, did the tour, had a coffee and laid out his wares on our kitchen table. His wares consisted of glossy brochures and smart apps and statistics that proved his success. He was pleasant and polite, full of self-deprecating jokes and smiles, careful of course as all good salespeople are, not to over-egg the custard. Not to appear desperate for the kill. In short, he was easy and pleasant to deal with.
He left with the business secured and we were left thinking how easy-peasy it was going to be for our house to sell.
It wasn’t.
The timing was bad and to cut a long story short, fast-forward a month and we were at the stage of having to accept, or not, the only offer we had received.
Both my husband and I wanted to take the weekend to consider our position. We told the agent and that’s when, through various texts and emails, his tone began to change, became more urgent and less genial. He wanted the deal signed, his tenth assured. But we wanted time.
Now my husband is Swedish and is therefore allergic to confrontation of any kind. (There’s a reason these people haven’t been to war since 1814.) He would, like most of his fellow country men & women emigrate rather than choose a side. When I first met him, I was overwhelmed by his strong silent aura, now of course I tear my hair out (or his ) trying to get him to Just Say Something! Anyway … he did what all Swedes tend to do when the shit is in danger of hitting the fan, he pretended it wasn’t happening.
Sure, enough the texts from the agent evolved into a phone call. And sure enough because the agent was a man, he rang my husband’s phone first.
My husband went deaf.
My phone started ringing.
Did I answer? Did I too, lose my hearing?
I’m British. I can’t tell you how many scary Friday nights at pub closing time I’ve survived. Of course, I answered. And of course, it was the agent. Who went through all the blindingly obvious.
This was the only offer we’d had.
I agreed.
The response hadn’t been what everyone was hoping for.
I agreed.
In fact, the response had been very poor.
I agreed.
So, we should take this offer.
Now. Here it is …
I didn’t say anything.
We needed to take the offer.
Still … I didn’t say anything.
We had no choice but to take the offer and we should do so immediately!
And still I didn’t speak, because although polite convention conditions us to fill awkward gaps in conversation (and women I truly believe are far more inclined to follow this unspoken rule than men) I have FINALLY at the age of fifty-five, learned to leave a pause.
That’s it – that’s the superpower.
Do you know what happens when you leave a pause?
The other person rushes in to fill it, invariably tying themselves up in verbal knots. And this is exactly what happened. The agent kept talking, winding himself up to the extent that eventually he came out with a line so absurd neither me or my husband will ever forget it (The phone was on speaker).
You can’t leave them (the potential buyers) waiting like this! he cried. It’s inhuman!
And which point everyone understood who had won the argument.
So there it is. As real as the sun in the sky, another secret superpower of middle age is learning to hold your conversational ground and say nothing at all.
At this stage in life you see, I have grown an extra layer of skin which is Teflon and from which all the embarrassment and/or discomfit and/or indignation and/or frustration on the other end of the telephone, or the other side of the desk, ricochets off me faster than bullets off superman’s chest.
Because no, I will not rush in with a barrel-load of apologies designed to make them feel better: I’m sorry but I hope you can understand …
And I will not spill forth sentences filled to the brim with the conditional tense, in an attempt to appease their irritation: If you could find a way I’d appreciate it …
And never again will I bother explaining myself with tentatively constructed prose, so I don’t sound unreasonable – Oh, I was under the impression that, My understanding of the situation was …
I will instead leave a pause long enough for the person I’m talking to - the one who hasn’t done their job, or who is dropping out of a social engagement last minute, or who has failed eighty-three times to respond to my email - to run out of ridiculous excuses and inadequate alternatives and understand that they are dealing with a middle-aged woman who will neither equivocate, or placate. Who doesn’t give two hoots if they think I’m a crabby old bat and Who Will Not Back Down!
Yes, nowadays my default stance is that of handing the other person a verbal shovel and listening whilst they dig themselves into that proverbial hole, because increasingly, these days, once I’ve explained my position I find I really do have nothing more to say.
And truly, I believe that this change, this shift in the level of empathy I’m prepared to dish out is a direct result of the hormonal changes of menopause. A physiological result of physiological changes in a woman’s body and mind. Post-menopausal women, begin to think more like men. We’re more focused. Much better at putting ourselves first and much less inclined to put up with B.S. Research has only just begun on this and for anyone wanting to know more, here is a good start.
Anyway, back to that call. When it was over, when the agent had composed himself and accepted that the deal wasn’t getting signed that day, I put the phone down and asked my husband (who was unpacking his suitcase) how I’d come across. He said calmly and that, dear reader – as anyone who knows me personally will attest – has to be the biggest compliment of my life and is surely a privilege of maturity.
Next week my second book publishes. A Midlife Baby. You can read it without knowing its predecessor, A Midlife Holiday, but that might be like adding the tonic before the gin, or the water before the teabag.
Anyway, here's the link Personally, I think it’s a better book than the first one, but what do I know…
Until next time,
Cary
P.S. If you’ve enjoyed this read, please do share with friends and family, sisters and mothers, in FB groups and from the rooftops. Otherwise It’s just me, whistling in the wind.
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Brilliant! I intend to start using this super-power today 😀
I've pre-ordered book two and can't wait to read it. A Midlife Holiday was my favourite this year so I'm sure A Midlife Baby won't disappoint.
Kerena Swan