Surviving middleish: coping in this purgatory called mid-life
A satire about middle age: not to be taken as medical advice. As if.
LIFE
Middle age often feels like an epic performance of a circus-worthy balancing act – imagine spinning plates with one hand while texting your mother and eating a sandwich in the other. You’re doing pretty well, and then along comes a sneeze.
Those of us who have reached mid-life are sometimes called “the sandwich generation,” and rightfully so. It is basically the purgatory between the oblivious youthful naivety of “I have NO idea who I am!” and the “This is who the hell I am, now deal with it!” geriatric muse, who has learned to drop the plates and yell, “Opah!” with rebellious glee.
Middleish people are incessantly searching for port (or at least a life raft) in the form of food, beach vacations and expensive wrinkle cream, but nothing seems to diminish the pesky woes of middle age. The word “crisis” doesn’t describe mid-life accurately – it’s more like the maneuverings of grumpy little hobbits through Middle Earth, slowly being led to the gates of Mordor. Hobbits that have to trim their ear hair weekly to avoid looking like they have tentacles.
What is this balance you speak of?
“Work-life balance” is one of the biggest fallacies perpetrated on human beings to date. It seems there is a lot of work, not much balance, and the life part kind of just happens between the chaos. As middle-agers, we look after elderly parents while supporting our adult children stuck somewhere between being children and having them. Some middlers care for minor children (in the case of a second marriage) or even raise their grandchildren. Or both.
Middle-earthers are usually barely treading water, trying to navigate a career (or three) to pay the bills. Sure, we might squeeze in a little quality time with the family here and there, but the only alone time we get is when we shower. Unless the dog hornswoggles its way into the bathroom. The days are filled with scheduling colonoscopies, Little League, touring colleges you can’t afford and that emergency meeting with the teacher about your youngest flicking boogers at his classmates again. It is a never-ending bombardment of to-do list items, discoveries of weird growths, and praying for retirement or the end of time.
Can I speak to the manager?
When my daughter was a teenager, she described the behavior of a woman slightly older than me who was causing a commotion at a public sporting event like this: “Uh, Mom! You could see it coming—she has that ‘can I speak to the manager’ haircut!” Can I speak to the manager? Say what, now?
I looked more closely at the lady’s hairstyle; indeed, she brandished a rather aggressive cut, like she’d let the hairdresser use hedge trimmers rather than scissors to style it. The angled, jagged horror wasn’t moving with her head as she admonished the poor, unsuspecting usher. Her hair gel was as palpable and crusty as her exasperation. I even thought I saw a faint wisp of smoke at one point. The poor, unsuspecting usher did not know what a “speak to the manager haircut “ was either and foolishly wandered into her trap, er path. I swore then and there that I would NEVER get a haircut like that. Ever.
That dreaded “M” word.
No, not “M” for Middle Age. For women, immediately following the scourge of “the curse” comes an even more dreaded “M” word: Menopause. You know, the Change of Life, aka the End of all Things.
Menopause signals the end of your childbearing years and, along with it, your vitality, sanity and overall hotness. The hysterectomy is the final nail in the coffin that holds your now dearly departed youth. It’s all gone, and what replaces it are hot flashes, night sweats, mood swings, carb cravings, aches and pains, weight gain, dry hair, stronger eyeglass prescriptions, weird odors, and many other hormonal blasphemies.
As a girl, I remember my mother talking (in a hushed voice) about her mother’s going through The Change. At that moment, I recall picturing my grandmother suddenly morphing into a combination of something like Grendel from Beowulf and the ghost of Jacob Marley (you think that kind of stuff when you are a young girl who KNOWS they will NEVER be as old as their grandma is one day). Menopause has been happening to women since time immemorial, yet it’s still an apparent enigma to the medical profession. They can’t decide whether it’s a disease, a mental illness or just a natural occurrence in a woman’s life. Maybe they will have figured it out by the time my granddaughters reach my age. I have found that the bar of stability means that if I spend most of my time as Smeagol and not Gollum, I am doing okay.
Not-so-sage advice.
One lonely night between hot flashes, I feverishly (pun intended) scoured the internet for anything resembling helpful advice on how to get through the middle-age slump. I found all kinds of counsel – from acupuncture to consulting a psychiatrist to reinventing yourself by merely “manifesting your youthful self”. This article (written by a millennial woman) advised that “the key to surviving this period is balance and extensive planning. Setting realistic expectations and boundaries can significantly alleviate stress.”
I thought, Get real, Dalai Lama! I ‘expect’ at least two empty wine bottles in your trash can by week’s end. “Remember, said Glenda the Good Witch, taking care of yourself isn’t selfish; it’s necessary if you’re going to care for others effectively.” Yeah, okay. I’ll see you later, then – at yoga class, right after I get my “can I speak to the manager” haircut.
Finding joy in the chaos.
Despite the apparent un-joys of middle age, it’s about trying to find some meager sliver of happiness in the midst of it. I have decided that you find peace when you choose not to take yourself too seriously because you realize nobody else does. And when you feel momentarily overwhelmed, try making faces at yourself in the mirror. I’m serious; you can’t NOT laugh at yourself when you make obnoxious faces in the mirror. For a bonus giggle, I sometimes shout something random like, “Bah! Humbug!”
Or just remember these words of the Not-So-Sage Adivce-Giver: “Middle age is a chapter of your life that, though filled with responsibilities, can also be incredibly rewarding.” Eye-roll to outer space.
With that, my middleish friends, I leave you with the immortal lyrics of Prince (feel free to sing along, no judgment):
Dearly beloved,
We are gathered here today
To get through this thing called “life.”
Electric word, life
It means forever, and that’s a mighty long time,
but I’m here to tell you there’s something else:
The Afterworld
A world of never-ending happiness
You can always see the sun, day or night
So when you call up that shrink in Beverly Hills
You know the one, Dr. Everything’ll-Be-All-Right
Instead of asking him how much of your time is left
Ask him how much of your mind, babe
‘Cause in this life
Things are much harder than in the Afterworld…
in this life
You’re on your own!
And if de-elevator tries to bring you down,
Go crazy! (punch a higher floor)!
(Let’s Go Crazy, Prince) (1984)
This article was written by Kimberly Lambacher, a wife, mom, grammy, and mid-life warrior. It is meant to be dramatically satirical and should not be taken as medical advice. I’m not a doctor; I just play one in my head.
