Midlife is not a crisis. Midlife is an unraveling.
Brene Brown
When I’m not in pain, I feel pretty invincible. Like, I’ve got this. Yeah! 48 years of accumulated knowledge and experience coming to the table, folks. Stand back!
Then I see someone at work 10 years younger than me show up in a way that brings me back down, tailbone-to-a-rock first. How do they know that already, that thing that I still cannot quite grasp or have always struggled with?
And I’m like, see there is the reason why… <insert voice of every person I’ve cared about that felt it necessary to point out all the reasons why I’m not loveable without some adjustments>. As if pointing out someone’s insufficiencies on repeat was ever a helpful way to get them to grow.
Ok! So I’m <thing>. What do you want me to even do about that? If I knew what to do about it, I’d be doing it already!
Suddenly I’m reminded that my 13-year-old often says something similar and I never know what to say to her in return. (Because I’m trying to solve her problem and clearly I don’t always know how to solve my own). I’ll tell her I know now, on some walk we’ll take when the rain clears, that I remember what it’s like. And let it be that.
That’s one thing I’ve learned. The Beatles were right: Let it Be.
And there I am reminded that I have grown. That my mind may still move like a hamster on quaaludes (which Google informs me is an outdated drug) but my mouth knows better where the period belongs.
When I am in pain and feeling defeated, I’m in fighting mode. Back to all the habits I’ve worked so hard to rid myself of. Irritated at my temporary regressions.
Who needs other people’s voices inside your head when your own is plenty busy pointing it all out for you? Like, who or what am I even fighting? There’s just so much tension for someone who grew up at the end of a rainbow. What’s my trauma exactly? (I mean, we’ve all got some, right? Trauma is trendy.)
I’m increasingly more ok with not giving a fuck what people think about me and more prepared to draw my line in the sand. But also more likely to step outside the ring with a shrug. I’ve only got so many fucks to give and I have to divide them carefully. Do you get one today? Depends. (There are many factors).
Night time. I’m not a fan. If I can get to bed at 8 pm with a heating pad and my Kindle, I’m a happy woman. Can we make that statement sexy?
Speaking of.
Men. I’d like one. Maybe. I’m not sure. Perhaps? I’m in therapy for that. (A post for another time. It might make men mad. Do I care?) My mum says I just need a “nice man”. Some statements make me see red, that one just makes me see gray.
Music. I listen to The 1975 on repeat with little desire to hear anything else. They’re a British band whose frontman eats raw meat, fakes masturbation, and climbs through a fake tv on stage. That’s quite enough variety for me these days.
(What am I even saying?)
Fashion. Celebrity gossip. Early tech adoption. Network TV. Movies. The news. Things I used to sign-up for but now feel allergic to. Like gluten. So many things I’ve cut out. Add sugar to that list.
If I sound regretful, it’s not intended. Sometimes the list makes me wonder about myself but not enough to revert. It’s a process of subtraction this maturation.
I used to take pictures. I should have more to say about that. I do miss it. Please don’t leave me helpful tips on how to fit it back into my life. I’m not someone who sits on the sidelines procrastinating. If it’s not happening it’s for a reason. I just don’t really know what it is right now. I think there’s a future blog post in there somewhere. (Marketer in me sees an opportunity to invite you to subscribe so you don’t miss that future nugget of wisdom.)
I wasn’t kidding.
Do I have a social life? (See point about my 8 pm bedtime). Again, it depends. Does my schedule mingle with yours? These days, unlikely. We’re all tired and overcommitted. Ok, you are. I’m generally just home alone half the time. Sometimes willingly because I increasingly need some silence from this noisy world. Sometimes just too tired to chase people down. Why can’t things just flow? Was that ever a thing or is this some postmodern plague? Other than the actual plague we’ve all been dodging. Or not. Depending on how you vote. How ridiculous is that statement?
Why is this all so exhausting? (Don’t answer that. I already know.)
Insert relevant point about having a teenager. WTH with these mood swings? I don’t remember being this emotional. You?
Oh, now I kicked open the door for my detractors to share the deep insight that I’m not “emotionally connected”, not an empath or whatever. So it probably was just me. But that’s my 30-something self agonizing over other people’s stories about me. I’m 48 now so I just eye-roll. You’re all right! What a coldhearted bitch I am!
But it’s all good! Holding it all together. Self-aware, self-assured, self-supporting. Totally self-actualizing.
Making adulting goals for 48. Save more. Spend less. Drink more water. Drink less wine. Think better. Listen more. Give fewer answers. Ask more questions. (How long do we have?)
More. Less. Better. It’s more or less better. But mostly, the answer still lies in the words of Lennon.
And because I can’t resist a rhyme: Happy Birthday to me, let it be.