Midlife

Is there any test I can take to confirm I'm in a midlife crisis? Of late, I have woken up in the middle of the night to cry, listen to jazz, and write emo poetry. I have not been this emotional since middle school. There was always something to be emotional about in middle school, but that's only because every day was a fresh hell. Plus, I had just started getting periods, and the sound of someone breathing made me want to body slam them. I'm one poem away from taking this sad act on the road. Help! 

Special

Can women have a midlife crisis? I know that I had a quarter-life crisis. Maybe I am just consistently in crisis. It's hard for me to tell. I have always been overly reflective and a little moody. But I do find that I have had a lot of questions about life as of late. One question that I find myself constantly nibbling on is when it is a good idea to give up on your dreams. At what point do you accept that you are never going to be a runway model or an NBA player and go get a job at Wal-Mart? Today I wondered if I have been asking myself the wrong question. For me, I think that the real question is, when do you accept that you are not special?

Throughout my life, I have felt that I am special, which is ironic, considering I didn't grow up with any money or any type of privilege. However, I always thought that I was a good writer without anyone co-signing this fact. I felt that I was funny and cool, even if no one else agreed. I have also always felt that I am a little psychic and very intuitive. People generally like me, and I am even a good whistler. As you can see, for a long time, I have been getting high on the supply that is me. 

Because of this, I had very high expectations for myself. I had this amazing life mapped out in my head without really having a plan to achieve it. But that was okay, because I was special, and as long as I stayed true to my dreams, a yellow brick road would appear out of nowhere and lead me to the promised land that was my achingly bright future. 

NOT! 

At my big age, I can tell you I am not special. On the low end, I am someone who does okay at stringing a sentence together, and on the high end, I have an undeserved high opinion of myself that has led me astray. I think that it is beyond time that I come to terms with the fact that I am not special. At most, I am a nice lady stringing together an existence. Sadly, I am under not special. Below average. Unremarkably underwhelming. In about a year, any talent I thought I had will be replaced by AI. I'm humorous, but not really. I just know how to word things in an interesting manner. I'd say that I am useless, but that is not true. There has to be someone around to stand as a proud example of what not to be. And with this in mind, I take a bow. 

It is with a heavy heart that I report that I have most likely wasted half of my life thinking that I am special, and it has gotten me nowhere fast. Where did I get off thinking that I was special in any way? I should have never believed Barney when he said that I was. Jerk. 

Stages

Long ago, I was invited to Colorado to review a winter resort. A family was staying there that I became friendly with, particularly the mother. She asked me how old I was, and at the time, I was 25. She was in her 50s. She said, "You are in that stage of life where you go on Facebook and see that all your friends are getting married. I am at that stage of life where I go on Facebook and see that everyone's parents are dying."

I have thought about that statement over the years, primarily because these stages seemed so extreme. I figured that there has to be a middle stage, and there is. At 40, I am at that stage of life where messed-up, scary stuff begins to happen to you to show you that you are no longer young, and it's not fun. 

Recently, a college friend of mine was diagnosed with breast cancer. Over the years, breast cancer has been diagnosed younger and younger in women. I had a mentor in her 70s that told me that when she started out as a nurse, it was rare to treat a woman under 60 with breast cancer. Now my friend, whom I remember partying with and watching her cross her sorority, is now posting about her doctor's visits and their mental toll. 

I have friends who are navigating separations and divorces. Friends that are dealing with high-risk pregnancies because they are now considered "geriatric". Friends who have seriously injured themselves doing something basic, like bending over or turning their head. It's also supplement time. Don't be surprised if you go to hang out with your girls and the conversation goes rogue, and you all start talking about what vitamins you are taking for heart health and to strengthen your pelvic floor. 

A woman recently went viral for pretty much having a live panic attack because she just turned 40 and felt like she had done nothing with her life and time is running out. This comes with it to, this feeling of feeling like you have not accomplished enough. Even accomplished folks can feel this way, and it's a very haunting and panicked feeling. You start to get antsy, searching for a way to at least have some small success. It's a lot of pressure. 

Earlier this weekend, I had a Clearly Canadian water. Do you remember those flavored waters from the 90s? They are back, and it was amazingly refreshing. The last time I'd had one of these drinks, I was at the stage in my life where my biggest concern was getting my homework done so that I could watch music videos for the rest of the day. Now, when I hear songs on the radio, I don't know who half of the artists are! 

I can be negative and anxious, so for my own mental health, I am trying to brainwash myself into believing that this is the stage that great, beautiful things are going to happen to everyone I know...just a little later than expected. This stage of life can be scary, but I just know that there is some sunshine coming around that bend, and I put that on my fish oil and glucosamine. 

Mammogram

I'm scheduled to get my first mammogram today. Am I scared? Well, I'm up in the wee hours of the morning blogging about it. You tell me. 

I don't want to go. I may cancel depending on high my anxiety is. I'm told it's going to really hurt. I'm beyond nervous and petrified something may be wrong. Listen, my who-ha has already put me through the ringer. I just found out I need gum surgery. I'm not losing any weight, and my grandma had dementia so when I forget something, I panic. Now I have to worry about my boobs? Being a grownup is ghetto. 

Not long ago it felt like this milestone was a way down the road, now it's at my doorstep. And having watched all those breast cancer horror movies on Lifetime growing up didn't help. Man, I thought I had worries as a kid because other kids made fun of me. I didn't know what worries were! I just want to read my Babysitter's Club books and watch Nickelodeon, not live in fear of my own breasts! 

I don't want to talk about this anymore. Wish me luck. 

The Case of the 40s

I don't know where I thought I was going to be at 40 years old, but I'm positive it's not here. And by here, of course, I mean nowhere doing nothing. 

When I was in my early - mid 20s, I used to throw myself hotel room birthday parties. I was so excited about them! I got such a kick out of planning them and figuring out what I was going to wear. If I could go back in time, I would tell myself to live it up, because sugar would go to sh*t, literally for the next 15 years. 

The other day, I had a dream that I was panicked, planning for a party at a big mansion. I was running around trying to get food and drinks for my guests, and I hired Kid Rock to do the photography and videography. I used to love him in high school. Not so much now. I think that we can agree that he's a little different now. Anywho, I woke up and figured that the dream was telling me that I wanted to have a birthday party for my 40th. 

On social media, I have seen my friends celebrate their 40ths in a whole bunch of fun and cute ways. International trips. Girls nights. Cruises. Family fun days. Spa weekends. Elaborate dinners. You name it! The last time I attempted to throw a movie night for my birthday, I invited a whole bunch of folks and only one person showed up. Luckily, it was one of my good friends. We drank sparkling apple juice and talked over tacos. It was a nice night, but a painful reminder that my friends either don't like me or don't give a crap. I would like to have a party because it would be nice to be excited about something, but if no one showed, I'd be crushed and disappointed, and I can't risk that. I am already crushed and disappointed, just living day-to-day. 

Right now, I am leaning towards getting an AirBnB for a weekend, turning out all the lights, and laying face first into a bed pillow, groaning. That may sound depressing, but it is actually one of my favorite things to do. I will keep you posted on my plans, or lack thereof. 

The End of Third Ryan

It is now fall. My lukewarm hot girl summer has come to an official end along with my pointless, going-nowhere crush on Third Ryan. You remember him? The nice guy from my writing group? Well, he has a crush on one of my good friends and that is simply a road I would rather not go down again. I've been going down it since the 6th grade afterall.

I am so, so tired of investing in the time needed to get to know men who aren't interested. I mean truly, I am exhausted. I could fall asleep right now while typing this post! And what I am even more tired of than that is the unhealthy way that I deal with unrequited love. I don't pray it away or dance it away like Solange. No. I transfer it away to another unavailable man like a loser. 

So, once Third Ryan casually proclaimed his love for my friend during a cute conversation that I had thought was otherwise going well, I decided to start the transference process. Sadly, I decided to transfer it to another man in writing group, Jack. Jack is annoying but hot. To even my own surprise I could not sustain the crush, so I transfered my now two-times-over RyanJack love to a man named MaxTheBody, a male bodybuilder that I found during a thirst search on Instagram. My crush on him will end soon enough, just like my crushes on that IG male dancer and the IG fetish trainer that makes adult movies with his wife. 

Not too long ago, someone asked me if I never found love, would God be enough. I originally said no, but I am parachuting towards 40 at a speed you won't believe. I don't think I have a choice! Hopefully God likes long hugs and slow dancing to 90s R&B. I have always wanted a boyfriend that could do a box step to Forever My Lady by Jodeci.