The Semi-Annual Midlife Crisis
I felt like I was going to have to preface my wild off-topic rambling with some sort of disclaimer about participating in the BloggerPR blogging prompt challenge in April. Then it occurred to me that it’s really not all that different from my normal everyday wild rambling, so, yeah. You’ve been prefaced.
Last week my daughter turned 13. I had a brief moment (okay, there were several moments) of paralyzing fear that perhaps I was getting.. gulp.. old. Would I suddenly be buying a Corvette* and dating women twenty years my junior? Oh wait, that’s men. Would I become obsessed with Botox and keeping my butt from sagging? Probably not, as I’m not a huge fan of looking surprised all the time. Honestly, after 13 years of parenting, I’m not really all that surprised ANY of the time.
Don’t get me wrong, I have moments of uncertainty. I freak out and feel that I’ve become too domesticated, playing minivan chauffeur to my brood while drinking a latte. Then comes the hair clippers or the jar of Manic Panic. I’ve traded my combat boots for Birkenstock clogs or pink New Balance sneakers. I own yoga pants and I don’t even DO yoga.
Then I hear one of my boys singing a Ramones song, and I stop and smile.
I think back to how many years I spent arguing that my tattoos and piercings didn’t define who I was. That my identity was more than the ripped jeans I wore, or the color of my hair. I even remember defending my love for the Spice Girls, because I was punk enough to love any damn band I wanted to.
I realize I haven’t changed at all, and I don’t intend to. God save the queen.
* My friend pointed out that a TARDIS is a much better option than a Corvette. I mean, go big or go home, right?