Welcome to your ringside seat at what might just be the start of my midlife crisis: would you like to share some crisps?
I appreciate that you haven’t been given much notice – it was not well advertised – that’s simply because I wasn’t planning on having one. Definitely not right now.
Touch inconvenient, frankly.
I was, in fact, or so I thought, laying the foundations of being a fabulous forty-something. I had resolutely decided to swerve crisis and do transformation. My subconscious, soul, psyche, IBS, whatever, thought otherwise.
I had begun to eat healthily more often than not, spend a little bit less than our income more often than not, wipe the kitchen floor more often than not (resident mother-in-law would dispute that but she is only a recent resident and has no prior context and she is a superfreak about cleaning so her opinion doesn’t count).
It was all going okay, then boom: I am doing crisis, and I am doing it the angry way.
What a crap-load of unanticipated bollocks.
If you have been here before, you may have noticed the not-so-brief hiatus in blogging since my last post. Over a month. I thought I had writer’s block, nothing to say… nothing befitting of my quirky upbeat blog anyway.
June disappeared in a fug. I’m experiencing extraordinarily unusual-for-me bad moods and surprising myself with a very short temper at times. It’s all a bit out-of-body experience right now but I admit, I can see some appeal in adopting this new snappy old cow persona for the long term.
I have facial hair that defeats Veet. I am wearing out tweezers. I thought that one bought a new pair of tweezers because one had mislaid their other pair of tweezers, not because they have actually stopped working. I am going to have to open a care home for weakened and terrified old pairs of tweezers. It’s the least I can do.
It’s not that I hadn’t realised I was approaching middle age, I just wasn’t silly bothered about it. OK, so with average life expectancy I’m probably halfway through my go. To achieve that average I need to shape up (literally and metaphorically in SO many ways), but I have acknowledged that and started slowly turning a good corner. With a similar speed and grace to turning a gigantic navy battleship, granted, but I was turning a corner and cool with that.
Whenever I actually take a second to consider myself, I’m always a touch surprised by how mediocre I am. And fat. And with a posture more suited to an orang-utan. But that’s nothing new, I’ve felt that was since I was about twelve…………
I have had a couple of conversations with teenage boys recently (to clarify: whilst being served by them in shops, I am not just going up to them at bus stops) and I have realised that I am a non-sexual being. I am trying to say that in the least weird way I can: I do not actually want to get busy with a young boy, at all.
Both times I unintentionally saw myself reflected “#nofilter” in the blank non-look given only by a teenage boy, and I saw too clearly the image of someone who is the absolute epitome of mediocre middle-aged Mumsieness.
It’s not about being considered and rejected, it’s about not even being up for consideration. It’s not being fat, having a hairy chin, anything like that. It’s about being just about as far away from being a sex object (weirdoes to one side) as a pigeon or a protractor or a poppadom.
That’s what makes the guys buy the sports cars… finally I get it. And that is what makes me sure that I am ready for my midlife crisis.
Worse still: upon becoming non-sexual beings, the only thing that Mumsies are good for (for the vast majority of bollock-owners on the planet) is a quick rustle-up of some pre-pub oven chips and the secret to the location of clean boxer shorts… as the resident mother-in-law does ALL the washing and ironing (yeah, fuck me, I know I know, fuck you back), I’m no good for that and I can’t cook oven chips either, they always burn.
From under the shroud of all my forlorn self-pity I have realised that, possibly, blogging my heartfelt grouchiness could be way more amusing and definitely more productive than staring at a blank computer screen because temporarily the “fuck yous” in my head aren’t cleverly wreathed in flowers and butterflies and carried on ribbons by songbirds, they’re coughed up by a chain-smoking eighty-year-old prostitute and spat into a dirty handkerchief held by a trembling horny tramp.
So welcome to the cheap seats. (There are only cheap seats, I am in too much of a self-deprecating mood to have expensive seats at my mid-life crisis.) Get comfy. This is going to take a long while.
Huge huge shout out to Iiu Susiraja whose wonderful self-portraits I have ‘borrowed’ here. Iiu, if you ever make your way here, I really hope you don’t mind, you are amazing xx