Adolescence — Part Deux

Reimaging Mid-Life

No Medium membership? No problem, ready my story for free here: https://readmedium.com/adolescence-part-deux-8c3cfd8ce605?sk=30476efd3f83e11b4ed5163f311f1bfa

I’ve been thinking a lot about my age lately. I’m 52. I’m at that time of life when people gush gleefully, “OMG, you look great! …(wait for it) …for your age!”

That nasty little qualifier. Nobody tells a child they’re cute for an immature tiny human. Nobody tells the hot 20-year-old they’re looking pretty spiffy for someone whose brain hasn’t even finished growing. But you make it to a certain age and how good you look has an asterisk beside it.

Granted, I’m aware of the fact that I’m not 18 anymore.

I can see the fine lines. I’m aware of the grey hairs I routinely cover up with various colours of hair dye. I’m aware of the 15–20 pounds I’ve gained in the past 35 years.

You know what else I’m aware of? That being middle-aged is THE BEST!

Seriously, mid-life isn’t like they told us back in the day. It’s not all long-suffering Edith Bunker or a 48-year-old Wilford Brimley looking about 70. It’s not even a more “modern” Cindy Walsh, happy to play soccer mom and head cookie baker to her “delightful” twins Brenda and Brandon. At least not for me.

I’m experiencing more of a second adolescence.

First, my hormones are all out of whack, so much like a hot-headed 13-year-old, I might run up the stairs screaming insults at someone. The only difference is now, I have bigger words to use.

Second, I’m getting to discover the world and myself again. My kids are all gone. They’re 33, 31, and 29 and all have their own lives and homes. It’s just me and hubby.

After decades of playing a supporting role while my boys discovered the world and their respective places in it, I’m back at centre stage. I can go where I want and do what I want.

Last year, I bought an electric guitar and decided to learn to play it.

I also cut my hair really short, both things my parents would never have let me do.

My learning is slow-going. I’m not a natural musician.

For Christmas, hubby wants a drum set. It’s a childhood dream of his that never came to fruition. His childhood sucked, so I’m going to move heaven and earth to get him his drums. They’ll be used, probably really, really used, but whatever.

Maybe we’ll start a band, he’s got an awesome singing voice. We can call it Nine O’Clock Bedtime, or Bad Knees & High Cholesterol (although we have neither). Maybe Cranky & Tired. Whatever, I don’t know.

The point is, we can do what we want. It’s like that feeling when you’re 18 and the world is opening up before your eyes and anything is possible and there’s really no one to answer to.

Oh, crap, wait…

That’s another thing. In my first adolescence, I distinctly remember telling my parents they couldn’t tell me what to do. They’ve both passed on, so now, they really can’t. I’m a full-blown free agent.

Ha! Not even close to likely. It turns out the Adolescence, Part Deux is a double-edged sword. The parental units might be long gone, but they’ve found themselves some cute little proxies.

I post a picture on Facebook of my new bikini, or of me daring to wear a short skirt and you can bet the fashion police will respond swiftly to advise me to put some clothes on. It’s for my own good, they say. They don’t want thier friends ogling their mother. Sounds very reminiscent of my father not wanting the young soldiers under his command ogling his daughter.

And of course, I protest. “You can’t tell me what to do, I’m your mother!”

Conversations have begun between them. Conversations about my future and my welfare. What are we going to do about mother? Hmmm, seems to me the nice couple who adopted me sang the same tune for many years.

I’m getting emails asking odd questions. Why am I awake at 3 am? Am I getting enough exercise? Would I like a treadmill for Christmas? Do I need money? Why would I need money? I do work, ya know. Okay, well, I’ll take the money, just sayin’. It’s like the phone calls I used to get from my dad when I was young.

And again, I protest, “You can’t tell me what to do, I’m your mother!”

It’s just that being middle-aged and an empty nester is a challenging time for children trying to raise their parents. Those darned quinquagenarians, they’re in their feisty fifties, wanting to tackle the entire world and with just about enough energy to do it.

Damn straight, and you still can’t tell me what to do. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got drum shopping to do, in a short skirt, if you please.

If you enjoy my work and would like to support it, please feel free to buy me a coffee: https://ko-fi.com/mistyrae