[Journal of a Midlife Crisis]

Prologue

Into every life some rain must fall. That rainy season occurs from mid-thirties to beyond a mid-thirty inch waistline. It’s midlife. The period that runs from the point of realization that attractive younger men now call us ma’am. to the time when we realize that we’re being nice to people just to be sure that there’s a crowd at our funeral.
Midlife - It’s a four-letter word ... if you’re a really bad speller. But it’s also extremely funny it you look at it right ... or if you ignore it ... or if you sleep through as much of it as possible.
This journal chronicles my experiences from a year of midlife. Bad days, good days, bad days ... yes, I meant to say that twice ... and a couple of really special lessons learned along the way. Perhaps you have experienced similar moments. If so, we can suffer together. Or, if you haven’t ... I made the whole thing up...

Midlife Crisis 101

I thought I was already well entrenched in my midlife crisis. But then something like today happens ... and I realize that everything before was just a dress rehearsal for the real thing.
I went to visit my old college campus, Louisiana State University. Ten of the best years of my life for a bachelor's degree. Don't ask.
I walked up the steps to the door of the student union building. And here, I must say, I looked good. Yes, I was breathing a little heavily - that's a lot of steps. But I did look good.
I had washed away the gray less than three days ago. I had fit into my jeans, and this time they even zipped all the way up without that pooch at the top where the zipper refuses to lie flat because of the extra inches pushing from the inside. I even had on my sweatshirt with an appropriately bawdy slogan on it. Yes, I was en vogue today.
I reached the glass doors of the union and, from nowhere, a young fellow appeared behind me.
He flashed sky blue eyes and grinned at me, a charming dimple appearing in his right cheek. His beard was barely stubble, but I figured at his age it was probably two months' growth. And that smile he gave said he had noticed me.
I knew at this wonderful moment that I still had "it". I could feel my face glowing. Images of The Graduate danced in my head. And then he said those words that I will never forget.
"Let me get that door for you, ma'am."
Ma'am. The name people use for my mother. The name I use when visiting octogenarians in the nursing home. The name that is most definitely not used on hot babes on college campuses.

Shiny Red Goals

I remember some years ago when my husband and I compared our revised life goals. Our earlier goals of being president and working in one of those little yellow film developing kiosks that used to be in parking lots everywhere no longer seemed realistic. (I'll leave you to guess which one of us had which goal.)
The first step was to sit and list pros and cons of our old goals. Then we would research, reconsider, do some soul searching, and other such deep considerations. We did.
David went off to take a computer assessment to see what his likes and dislikes were. He researched different careers, different schools, and business outlooks.
I ... well ... I read a couple of romance novels.
When we got back together after our research, we had created our new revised life goals. David had created a ten-year plan to go back to school and get a degree in architecture, then to intern, and finally to sit for the test for his architectural license. I, on the other hand, decided to buy a shiny red car.
Ten years passed.
David is now working at a wonderful architecture firm. He's designing all sorts of structures and learning all aspects of the business. We even took a picture of him with his first project, a fire escape
I ... well ... I put a new radio in the not-so-very shiny red car.
We realized that we needed to update our goals again.
David decided that there are places he wants to see in the world. So he researched possible vacation sites, studied the customs, travel regulations, etc.
I read a couple more romance novels.
And then we came up with our decisions.
David recently traveled to South Africa to discover the animals in their natural habitats, to meet the Zulu people, to find himself.

(Click on picture for enlargement)

I ... embarrassed into feeling that I had to do something too ... wrote a romance novel.
This midlife thing takes too much energy.

Want Fries With That?

It's a little sad. Someone called me today and we talked about silly things like dreams and goals and all that nonsense. And I realized I'm backwards.
"My goal is to make enough to retire by the time I'm fifty," this ambitious young lady told me. "I'm going to be married and have my two kids and live by the Country Club."
"Nice," I smiled into the phone, that knowing smile that passing forty gives you when talking to those who haven't even visited thirty-land.
"What about you?"
Why is it that young people expect interaction on phone calls? My mother calls and she does not expect me to talk. Doesn't even encourage it. It's her nickel and she's going to tell me everything she needs to. If I wanted to talk, I'd make the call and she wouldn't get the chance to talk. But the girl is waiting...
"By the time I'm fifty, I plan to have paid off my MasterCard from college."
"But what else?"
She wants to think of a bigger goal than paying off a twenty-year old MasterCard? This girl needs a reality check. But I'm bored, so we continue.
"And I plan to get a job that allows me to say things like, 'Would you like fries with that?'"
"How could you want that? You're head of the department." She is shocked. So would I have been, in my twenties when I thought the presidency was my next natural step in careers.
"Yup. I'm working in this job because I had debts that only a big paycheck could handle. Because I thought I had to keep up with the Joneses and the Trumps. But somewhere along the way I learned something."
"And that was?" Kids are so impatient. I was trying to tell a story in the old-fashioned Jimmy Stewart method and she wanted the MTV quick sound bites version.
"There are things that are more important. I don't need to equal everyone else's vision of success. I can choose my own. I don't have to be rich to be happy. Sometimes it's more fun to be poor and creative."
"But don't you want money?"
"I'm not stupid. Sure I'd take it. But it's not a goal. It's a sideline. If I let money be my goal, I'll never stop moving and fighting. And I'll always be angry at people who seem to be getting more than their share. As it is, I'm pleasantly surprised with whatever comes my way."
"That doesn't make any sense."
"Not when you're twenty, it doesn't." I smiled again. "Gotta go. I've got an important meeting."
"Aha! A meeting. See, you're doing something for your career, even when you say you don't care."
"Yeah, maybe you're right," I laughed. I hung up the phone to prepare for my meeting. I put on my tennis shoes, grabbed my cat and walked out into the backyard. We immediately jumped into the subject of our meeting -- an unruly leaf that needed to be attacked.
Yup, you just can't explain it. You have to get there on your own.

Mom Is A Four-Letter Word

My mother just doesn't understand me. She threatens me frequently with retroactive abortion. I threaten her with Pleasant Manor. I tell her if she's going to leave me her twenty-seven inch color television when she kicks off, why not give it to me now while the darn thing still works right?
Actually, I wouldn't change a hair on her lip. Although I did once spend seventy-five dollars an hour to have a therapist tell me that I had a conflict with my mother. Big surprise. I could have spent just twenty-five dollars more and had Guido who lives on the corner take care of that conflict for good.
The problem seems to be that my mother and I are too much alike. We are both experts on everything in the world. It doesn't matter if we know nothing about whatever subject we are discussing. We are still experts. At one point we tried to go shopping together. It was not pretty.
"Christee, this would look great on you." She held up an outfit that looks like something you would buy for a doll.
"It's a Barbie Doll outfit. It's just not me, Mom."
"But it's pretty."
"That's why it's not me. I'm not the pretty type. I like functional clothes."
"This is functional. It has pockets."
"It also has lace around the collar."
"What's wrong with that?"
"I'm already married. I don't need to wear lace more than once in my lifetime."
She gave up and started to move on. A saleslady approached us. "Can I help you?"
I could have told her that was a mistake. Mom dove right in. "Well, that's a lovely outfit you have on."
"Thank you." She didn't realize she was being set up. I did
"Is that lace on the sleeves?" Oh, this was about to get good.
"Well, yes it is." Like a lamb to the slaughter.
"Oh, is your name Barbie?"
"Ma'am?"
"Are you getting married today?"
This woman was looking really nervous. She looked to me for help. I was not helping. She got herself into this, she could get herself out of it.
Mom continued, "Is it possible that lace is not just for wedding days and dolls?"
"Certainly." She was trying to humor this woman. I could have told her that was a mistake. I'd been trying to do it for over forty years and it had never worked for me.
"So my daughter could wear lace if she wanted to?"
"Certainly." It had seemed a safe word once, so she tried it again.
"So, she must not want to."
The saleslady looked at me in my faded jean overalls meant for a man twice my size. "I don't think she wants to."
"Aha!" Mom smiled. She had won. She had gotten someone to admit that I just don't like lace. She walked off victoriously toward the bathing suits, ready to find one with a built-in bra that was three sizes too large so that it would make my waist look thinner.
The saleslady looked at me.
I shrugged. "We're out of her medicine."
"Is she dangerous?"
"Only if you have her genes."

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