Stuck in the middle

“Midlife: When the universe grabs your shoulders and tells you, ‘I'm not fucking around, use the gifts you were given.’ ” — Brene Brown

I love this quote so much that I want to hug it and squeeze it and name it George.

Why? Because it is SO true. In my case, the universe also slapped me across both cheeks before I got the point. But I got it. In a major way.

At age 43, I truly have stopped fucking around. In fact, I am embracing middle age in an aggressive (if slightly awkward) bear hug.  First off, I had a midlife epiphany (NOT a crisis) when I turned 40 that impelled me to quit the corporate world and start my own business.

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Shit had blown up in my personal life and I had spent three months putting in crazy hours on a major project at my job. It hit me that, if I was going to work this damn hard, I didn’t want to do it for the benefit of someone else.

For the first time in my life, I made a conscious choice to do what I knew would make me happy and not what I thought I was supposed to do. And holy shit, am I ever happy. Blissful, even. Best. Decision. Ever.

But work is only part of my total transformation. See, I am just not cool anymore, and I am totally OK with that. I am mom jeans and wrinkle cream. I am coupons and comfortable shoes. It’s the most liberating feeling in the world.

I freely admit that I do not understand a hell of a lot about the younger generation, nor do I want to. My peers and I had our uniquely “us” stuff, like parachute pants and MTV (when it actually played videos), so let them have theirs.

Yes, I accept that my sun has stopped rising in the proverbial sky and is just hanging there on the horizon, ready to start its descent. I mean, what choice do I have? It’s either make peace with getting older or become that creepy old lady wearing too much eye makeup and hitting on men half her age. And no one wants to be HER. Srsly.

Yep, the only clubbin’ I do these days is health clubbin’, and the only time I pay $7 for a mixed drink is a meal replacement shake at my gym’s cafe.

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 In my 40s, I will always, always chose sweatpants over heels and fishnets. And I will never again go out on a winter evening without a coat, scarf and gloves. Where I’m going will have a coat check and won’t require a hand stamp, by God.

I am categorically incapable of staying out all night unless I am at the hospital with a sick family member. You say the show starts at 10? P.M.? Well, have yourself all kinds of fun, darlin’. I’ll be drinking a mug of herbal tea and hunkering down with a good book about the time you’ll be hitting the dance floor.  

I am at a point in my life when I actually prefer to go to bed early so I can wake up at a decent hour and not waste my day. And I say things like “decent hour.”

I would rather save my money so I can buy the high-end version of a product rather than buy the cheap alternative right now. The best present I gave myself in 2015 was a $350 Dyson vacuum.

Yes, I get more excited about household appliances than concert tickets, though when I do go to a show, I pay more so I can see the artist on stage and not just on the Jumbotron, or via a thousand tiny cell phone screens. (Do not get me started on that shit. JUST WATCH THE DAMN SHOW WITH YOUR EYES. But I digress.)

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When I was younger, even recently in my 30s, I would quiet my mind in bed at night with happy little meet-cute fantasies about my latest celebrity crush, or maybe even a guy I was attracted to in real life.

Today, my dreams involve paying off my student loans and remodeling my kitchen. Utopia is not marrying Prince Charming, it is achieving a debt-free existence that includes a new garbage disposal.

I’ve owed money (with interest) in some form or fashion since I was 18 years old, and I have finally had enough. It all began with enticements from the Citibank table during orientation my freshman year at college. (Don’t get me started on THAT, either. Credit cards were crack for Gen Xers.)

If I could go back in time, I would tell my 22-year-old self just how long that shopping spree at Contempo Casual would hang around. Long after the clothes went out of style, that’s for sure.

Anyhoo, one of the things middle age means to me is being smarter about money and not living above my means. I can’t believe it took me 40 years to figure that out, but there you have it.

If I am lucky, half of my life is over. I’m going to spend the last half accepting myself for who I am and appreciating the world around me.

So here goes. I am an unapologetic introvert who prefers the company of my dogs to most humans. I am at complete peace with being single. In fact, I am so comfortable with my independence, I can’t picture how a man would fit into my world. And I don't feel the slightest bit guilty about that.

I’ve also removed the drama from my life. The people with whom I choose to surround myself feed my soul, they don’t suck the life out of it. Yes indeed, I am happy to be lucky and lucky to be happy.

You don’t have to be at the mid-point of your life to embrace who you are, but that seems to be the reality-check age for a lot of us.

Here’s some all-purpose advice (and rules I live by) if you are staring down the barrel of middle age:

Help people when they ask, because up to this point, a shit-ton of people have probably helped you. Eat good food, not just food that tastes good. Get up off your ass and move your body. Take breaks to dance, play with your kids and your dog.

And above all, be nice. Life is too short to be an asshole, especially for those of us who are already halfway done.

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