In the 1980s in Russia, I often overheard my mother and her friends discussing what they called “old-age wisdom,” claiming that a woman’s “second prime” starts at 40. As a skeptical teenager, I dismissed their notions as relics of a bygone era spent standing in long queues. I couldn’t fathom how their lives, filled with multiple jobs and the daily grind of Soviet life, could lead to a renewed prime. By the time they hit 40, I imagined they would only find relief in the absence of parent-teacher meetings and scouring stores for basic necessities—if they had even managed to build the promised utopia of Communism.
Fast forward to today: the USSR has crumbled, and we relocated to the United States. My mother, now in her mid-forties, still prepared her classic chicken dinners, but without the hassle of waiting in line. Yet, the much-discussed “second prime” eluded me. While she no longer had to jostle for toilet paper or bribe teachers, the signs of aging were evident. Her laughter lines deepened, her figure shifted, and salon visits became routine. The radiant transformation I expected didn’t seem to manifest.
As I approached 40, thoughts of a “second prime” faded into the background. My own daughter was entering the tumultuous tween years. Between managing schoolwork, orthodontic expenses, and the chaos of adolescence, the concept felt as distant as my financial obligations.
However, nearing 43, I sensed a subtle transformation. The anxieties that once plagued me had lessened, evolving into a more profound conviction that everything would eventually fall into place. The fervor I once had for contentious debates dwindled, replaced by a calmer disposition.
I found myself selectively caring about what truly mattered. I no longer fretted over aspects of life beyond my control. My social circle shrank, but the joy I experienced with close friends grew significantly. Unfortunately, my waistline expanded alongside the laughter, yet I adopted a lighthearted approach, donating clothes from my past rather than clinging to unrealistic expectations.
The word “no” became a staple in my vocabulary, just as I embraced a more organic lifestyle. I relinquished the need for others’ approval and focused on self-acceptance. It turned out that this shift was the key to my happiness. I cultivated gratitude, recognizing that each year brought me closer to understanding life’s fleeting nature. Instead of dwelling on what I lacked, I cherished the people and experiences I had. Finding joy in small blessings became a nightly ritual, often accompanied by a glass of fine red wine.
Months into this newfound perspective, I contemplated whether my evolving mindset was genuinely indicative of my mother’s “second prime.” To find out, I called her one day as she was driving to get her nails done.
“Mom, remember when we talked about the second prime?” I asked.
“What?” she replied, distracted.
I had clearly caught her off guard. “You know, the second prime you always discussed with your friends back when I was a teenager.”
“Hold on a moment.” After a brief pause, she returned, her tone shifting to one of exasperation. “That was your father. He’s hungry.”
At 64, my father still hadn’t mastered cooking for himself.
“So I told him he could either wait or heat up the leftover pasta,” she continued. “Now, what were you saying?”
“Forget it,” I sighed.
Even if my mother couldn’t recall our discussions about the second prime, she was undeniably living it—much like I was.
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In summary, the idea of a woman’s “second prime” at 40 may not be merely a myth. It can represent a significant transformation, one that involves self-acceptance, gratitude, and a more profound appreciation for life as experiences unfold.