Someone asked me if I was having a mid-life crisis because my son has gone off to college, and I, of course, immediately slapped him.
Not really, but he totally would have deserved it.
Instead what I did was gently remind him that as he was a man who was WELL into his forties, he was the one who was mid-life.
I think he would have been happier if I’d slapped him.
It’s not so much the whole getting older thing that bothered me. I’d much rather get older than the alternative. It’s the implication that mid-life is bad, the implication that it’s all over for a woman once you hit mid-life. Like, we’re supposed to just hand over our uterus and pick up a ball of yarn and some knitting needles from the basket by the door at the gynecologist’s office on our way to the nursing home.
Oh, and worse, this is a man who is almost ten years older than. Did he just assume that I was aging extremely well? I mean, I am, but where on earth did he get the idea that we were that close in age? WTF?
So, after calling to make an appointment with my aesthetician, I called my aunt, The Therapist.
And, she says I’m not having a mid-life crisis. Thank God! Then, she named some malady that started with post-adolescent and ended with phase. It was delayed because I became a mother before I could go through it. Still a late-bloomer! And that I’m going through this whole growth process now because I didn’t go through it when I was nineteen. Or something like that. She made it sound much better than “mid-life crisis.”
So I’m sane. Well, clinically, at least. And relatively normal. For now.
And I still haven’t slapped a man since 1992.