No one likes to be called middle-aged; surely that’s meant for OLDER people. But what lies we tell ourselves! I’ll be turning fifty shortly and it’s time I came clean. This is not even the middle, this is the two-thirds mark. I am 67%-aged.
Maybe your parents shopped for genes at “Long-Lives-R-Us,” and you have a reasonable expectation of living to 100. My parents were both gone by the time they hit 70, so getting to 75 will be part of the bonus round.
Like a lot of people, I spent the first 25 years saying “What the fuck?” And the next 25 years were spent in part figuring out what happened the first 25 years. I did get a few things done, like having a baby surgically extracted from my abdomen, getting a degree, moving state-to-state a couple times. I saw some friends through some crazy stuff, and witnessed some shit for history books that will scare the grandkids (Katrina, George W. Bush, Dick Cheney). The last 25 have been some busy years.
But what-to-do, what-to-do (thinky face, tap the forehead) with the third half? I’ve got less time coming than I’ve had, and I want to spend it well. No bucket list, no climbing mountains or skydiving. Typical of me, I’m much clearer on the don’ts.
DON’T: worry about money, get drunk and watch Lifetime movies, spend time ingratiating yourself to people who think they are the most important persons in the room, grumble so much about work, get depressed about weight, try so hard to get the prince’s friends’ parents to like you, dwell on mistakes in the past, stress about the prince’s future.
DO: keep breathing. Repeat.