23 Jun 2014
My nail varnish is black, I’m listening to pagan trance music, and I’m considering a tattoo. I’m told by several school gate mothers that my skirts are a little short, and I went out without knickers on the other day (although this was entirely accidental; impossible though it sounds, I just forgot them in the rush).
I’ve also started behaving badly at parties. At my friend Jill’s 40th I danced on a table (this was not the pantless day you’ll be relieved to hear), and bounced on her kids trampoline with several friends whose pelvic floors immediately questioned the wisdom of their decision.
A combination of research and discussion concludes that I am having a mid-life crisis. That awful time of life when you throw in your job, buy a sports car, dump your spouse, buy leather trousers or indulge in a terrible combination of all of the above. The typical age for a midlife crisis in a woman is 37 – 44. So that’s what it is then.
And yet I resent the suggestion that because I’ve decided to stop being sensible, I am somehow suffering a medical condition related to my age. What if (heaven forbid) I’ve just decided to enjoy myself? Supposing (perish the thought) it’s not unseemly for women in their forties to dance on tables and wake up with a hangover? Imagine for a moment (try not to be alarmed) that life is not over at 30, and being a bundle of mischief at every possible moment might be the right way to go? Some of the people I have to talk to on a daily basis are so serious they sound like they shit marble. How can that be right?
I’m not claiming that no one ever struggled during what Jung referred to as the “afternoon of life”. I know many women who have concerns about their children leaving home, their loss of identity, the worry that life has passed them by. Women often get validity through relationships, even if they’ve had a lifelong career. So at midlife, they are likely to evaluate their performance as a partner, mother, or both. I don’t deny that this is hard. But can I really not have a little fun without the immediate accusation that I am exhibiting a symptom of psychological angst? Is it possible that I might just want a bit of a laugh?
Despite the fact that I loathe all forms of fitness and can barely run for a bus, I have decided to take up exercise classes. Being me, they cannot be typical, because I have so little motivation that I can only take up a class that might actually be a riot. And so it is that on Thursday night I will be attending my first ever pole dancing class. Apparently I must not apply body lotion that day (too slippery) must wear hot pants and a vest top (I own neither) and I can chose whether or not to do it in heels.
