I told you I work better at night. Part 2.

Lately, I've mostly been worried about getting older. Shoving all well-meaning comments from older women about how they wish they could be my age again aside, it really freaks me out. I could write about 5 million entries about the psychological effects of facing my own mortality, but in this blog I'd like to tackle the good, old-fashioned shallow things like wrinkles and gravity.

I am completely aware of the edge that my youth gives me. I'm also completely aware of how to use my gender to get things, not only socially, but also in the business world. As I reach middle age, being a woman is going to become a hinderence instead of an asset in my professional career. No longer will I be able to get through difficult situations by acting cute. I'm going to be an old lady in the eyes of male colleagues. I'm going to be expendable. Let's face it: Women who've been at a job for a long time aren't looked at as veterans like men are. Shit.

Not to mention the fact that I'll have to compete for men with women half my age. How is it fair that men continue to have their choice of women as our prospects twindle to nonexistent as we age? But there isn't anything I can do about it. I'm aging right now, and whether I like it or not, it's going to dictate how other people percieve me. Even if I choose to be "young at heart," I'll still be religated to the role of wacky aunt or cougar or Cat Lady (the plastic surgery woman, not someone who likes cats). Shit.

So here I am. Now what?