Last week my daughter said to me, “Mum, you don’t seem like you’ve ever gone through a mid-life crisis.”
I snorted. Then, accepting it for the compliment it was, I answered.
“Well, I’m not sure, but maybe losing one’s long term job at the age of fifty and writing my brains out for four years might be what some folks consider a crisis.”
“No, really. You know what I mean.”
I guess I do. So far, I haven’t felt the need for a facelift (although some help with my eyelids would be nice). I don’t dress in inappropriate clothes (just sloppy ones), I haven’t taken to hitting the bars or seeking out unsuitable relationships, nor have I found myself tense or overly emotional. I haven't pulled up in a red Camaro and I don’t spend an inordinate amount of time bemoaning what has passed, or longing for what I’ve missed.
So I guess, in that regard, I’m doing rather well.
The pink slip they handed me back then, came packaged as an opportunity for reinvention. As a result, I immersed myself in a craft I adore, which has shaped me and tendered a release for the times life does offer up challenges. This defining practice of self-expression has led to an inner knowledge and confidence I would not have considered possible four years ago. In plain English, I’m pretty sure it’s the writing that’s kept me together.
If this is my mid-life my crisis, where do I sign up for another?