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?
