Ah, the grand debate of the modern age: to blog, or to privately fume in silence? Here I am, zooming toward the dignified age of 42—or as dignified as one can feel on the hormonal rollercoaster that is surgical menopause. I am about to hit one year wine-free (yes, I still astonish myself), marking five years navigating menopausal waters due to the curse that is PMDD, and am gearing up to marry the love of my life in what marry the love of my life in what I know will be a celebration of pure love and the absolute joy of becoming Mrs. R.
In short, life is a cocktail of joy, disbelief, and the kind of bewildering changes that could fuel an entire sitcom.
And so, what better way to make sense of it all than to launch a blog? Nothing says “making peace with your midlife” like sharing it on the internet for all to read! It’s like a public diary, but with the thrilling possibility that someone, somewhere, might actually relate. Or at least enjoy the occasional existential grumble.
A Vintage Rant in a Filtered World
Social media these days is ruled by influencers whose complexions rival porcelain, with lives as curated as museum displays. Meanwhile, here I am with laughter lines, a back that has seemingly gone on early retirement, and a pronounced flair for finding the absurdities in growing older. Will we ever see a return to genuine connection? To conversations layered with wit, banter, and the occasional pointed eye roll? Dare I hope? Well, that’s precisely why I’m giving this blogging thing a whirl.
“Midlifery”: A New Era of Human Connectivity
As I dive into what I call “midlifery” (thank you, yes, coined that term myself), I feel an urge to reach out to fellow women over 40—and really, anyone up for a good chinwag. Because let’s face it, how did we get here so quickly? One moment I’m strutting around in heels that could double as weaponry; the next, I’m shuffling about in fluffy slippers, wondering when my knees went on strike. (Spoiler: it was sometime after my back threw a pity party.)
From High Heels to Fluffy Slippers: The Great Transformation
Gone are the days when an evening out involved hours of hair, makeup, and the daring belief I was the sexiest thing on two legs. Now, I consider it a win if I remember to brush my hair by mid-afternoon. Once, the sight of a new pair of heels would make my heart race; now, I find the same thrill in a fresh delivery of tulip bulbs. Yes, I’ve officially become that person who eagerly anticipates spring planting.
Then, in a further twist of irony, I’ve just bought myself a sunflower-themed ironing board cover. Do I iron much? Hardly. I pay someone for that. But if I’m going to pretend to be domestic, I might as well make it colourful. Louboutins are behind me, dear reader—now it’s fluffy slippers and Netflix all the way.
The Peculiarities of Midlife Health
Let’s talk, for a moment, about “keeping the vagina happy.” Yes, here I am, midlife, slapping on HRT like it’s a new skincare routine and making dosage adjustments that feel like full-time work. Who could have predicted that I’d be spending my forties in deep conversations about oestrogen levels? If you’d told my 20-year-old self she’d be juggling vaginal health and hormone levels with the seriousness of a diplomatic envoy, I’d have laughed so hard my fake lashes would have taken flight.
Then, of course, there’s the eternal question of “What’s for dinner?” If given the choice, I’d debate Aristotle over that nightly battle. Thankfully, my soon-to-be-husband is delightfully “cheffy,” so I can feign culinary interest while he whips up something vastly superior to my attempts at pasta. He actually said, “What’s nice is at least you’re trying.” Trying! This, dear reader, is my culinary reality at nearly 42. Ingredient-blind but not for lack of enthusiasm.
The Burden of Too Much Stuff
At this stage in life, I am thoroughly sick of stuff. Yes, in our twenties and thirties, we pursued gadgets, gizmos, and all manner of things that were meant to make life grand. Now, excess feels like an anchor. As I look around, all this “stuff” has become like an unwanted guest who refuses to leave. I crave simplicity, peace, and a purpose that doesn’t involve buying yet another random object that will end up gathering dust.
Which leads me to my latest fascination: Stoicism. Yes, while battling hormone swings worthy of a Shakespearean drama, I find myself drawn to the stoic musings of ancient philosophers. “What can I control?” I ask, as my hormones cackle in response. “Not much,” I concede, but perhaps I can control how I respond to the madness. Now there’s a thought worth hanging on to.
The Art of the Midlife Moan
So, what’s the takeaway here? Yes, I’m losing a bit as I age—elasticity in both my waistline and patience, my once boundless energy, and even the vibrant colour of my hair, which has embraced a distinguished shade of white. But in return, I’ve gained the exquisite skill of complaining with the flair of a true artiste. Midlife, you’ve gifted me the art of the well-timed moan.
Join Me on This Beautifully Chaotic Journey
So, here I am, blogging my rants and ravings—a place where you can read along, chuckle, and share in the absurdities of life if you’re so inclined. Whether you want to comment or simply nod along, you’re more than welcome here.
And if, in the midst of this midlife chaos, you also find yourself clinging to certain vices for dear life (in my case, vaping—a lovely surprise from our government now more expensive than my perfume), just know you’re not alone. We’re all fumbling our way through this journey.
So, let’s make a pact: let’s embrace this midlife era with humour, a good cup of tea, and the understanding that we’re in this beautiful mess together. Cheers to making aging bearable—perhaps even fun.
And yes, as I march toward my new title of “bride” at 42, there’s a glimmer of hope. If love can bloom amid the chaos, surely we can find joy here, too.
Sober Sláinte to that!
Ah, the peculiar beauty of raising a glass—or perhaps a cup of tea—to good health without the warm haze of alcohol! This journey, my friends, is about savouring life’s moments with full clarity, without the liquid courage but with every bit of grace and humour. Here’s to being fully present, to remembering every laugh, every tear, and every slightly embarrassing dance move without regret. Sober, yet wholeheartedly here for the ride.
So, sláinte, in its purest form—may we toast to joy, connection, and the resilience to enjoy every second of it, fully awake and entirely ourselves. to that.
