Back in Russia during the 1980s, my mother and her friends often talked about what they called the wisdom of aging: “a woman’s second prime begins at forty.” As a cynical teenager, I rolled my eyes at this idea, dismissing it as a result of too much time spent in lines. Surely, I thought, their lives wouldn’t magically reboot at forty. These women juggled multiple jobs, crafted ambitious five-year plans by day, and scoured Moscow for scarce groceries during lunch breaks, only to return home to cook dinner while managing the demands of their husbands and kids. At forty, I figured their only “second prime” would be a life free of parent-teacher meetings—if they even managed to create the utopia they were promised.
Fast forward a few years. The USSR fell, and so did its communist ideals. We relocated to the U.S., where my mother continued to serve chicken for dinner, this time avoiding the lines by picking it up pre-cooked from the supermarket. By her mid-forties, I still couldn’t see the mythical “second prime” in her. Sure, she no longer had to tussle with elderly women for toilet paper, but her laugh lines were pronounced, her waistline called for a tankini, and those trips to the hair colorist had become a necessity. To me, there was nothing particularly radiant about her.
When I hit forty, the notion of a second prime had faded from my memory. My own daughter was entering her pre-teen years, and between checking her homework and debating the state of her room, I was busy racking up orthodontic bills. The idea of a second prime felt as distant as those bills were from the realities of American life.
Then, around the ages of 42 and 43, something shifted. The stresses that used to trigger migraines seemed to fade, and the doubts that robbed me of sleep made way for a newfound belief that everything would be okay. The fire with which I once engaged in contentious debates had simmered down to a manageable level.
This wasn’t apathy; I was still invested in life, just more selectively. I learned to care less about things beyond my control, and instead focused my energy on what truly mattered. I became adept at sidestepping drama and pruning toxic relationships. My circle shrank, but the joy I experienced with those who remained in it amplified.
Unfortunately, my waistline expanded along with my happiness. However, I didn’t let that get me down. I rummaged through my closet, tried on my favorite jeans from my thirties (and twenties!), and after confirming I still didn’t fit, sent them off to Goodwill. Clinging to the hope of squeezing back into them wasn’t realistic—or nearly as fun as picking out new ones.
The word “no” became a delightful addition to my vocabulary, used with the same passion I had for transitioning my family to a mostly organic diet. I finally let go of the fantasy that I needed to win everyone’s approval and instead focused on liking myself. It turned out that was the key to my happiness.
Gratitude crept into my everyday life. With each year past forty, I moved closer to the reality of mortality. Instead of fretting over what I lacked, I dedicated more time to appreciating the people and things I had. Discovering hidden blessings in a sometimes bleak reality became a nightly routine, often accompanied by a glass of red wine.
After a few months of these revelations, I suspected that my osteopenia medication wasn’t the only factor at play. Perhaps the second prime my mother had once spoken of wasn’t just a myth; maybe it was genuinely real.
I decided to check in with her. “Mom,” I asked during a phone call while she was driving to the nail salon, “do you remember our talks about the second prime?”
“What?” she replied, her tone suggesting she was busy.
“You know, the second prime you always discussed with your friends when I was a teenager.”
“Hold on a second.” After a brief pause, she returned with the unmistakable sound of eye-rolling in her voice. “That was your father. He’s hungry.”
I rolled my own eyes. At 64, Dad still couldn’t manage to cook for himself.
“So I told him he could either wait and stay hungry or heat up that leftover pasta in the fridge,” she continued. “Now, what was it that you wanted again?”
“Never mind,” I said.
Even if my mother didn’t recall the concept of the second prime, she seemed to be embodying it. And so was I.