For some, mid-life is the era of expanding waistlines and receding hairlines. For others, it is that time when you finally grow into your kaftan and embrace a head full of white curls. I don’t quite wear kaftans yet, but I am firmly rooted in the chaos of midlife. I can regale you endlessly with tales from the trenches, where maturity and immaturity collide, often in a glorious mess. Every day brings a new realisation, and I bravely face the responsibilities I once scoffed at. Grab your dad jeans and orthopaedic shoes because this is about to get real.
One day, you’re singing ‘Forever Young’ or any other 80s anthem at the top of your lungs; the next, you’re googling ‘How to get my child to eat vegetables’ at 2 a.m. Reality hits like a tidal wave of dirty laundry and unread cookbooks. Suddenly, I was bogged down by more responsibilities than I could neatly fold and tuck away.
Like an amateur circus performer, I frantically try to juggle the flaming torches of career, family, and personal life while spectators (AKA my family) watch nervously. Please note that personal life does not equal social life. My life consists of grocery shopping alone and scoffing the chocolate I bought on the sly in the car before I get home. The extant of me-time.
I was never good at finances or any number-related field. Pizza + wine – money = happiness. When I was younger and said that I only had R50, I only had R50. This could be at any time during the month. And for those who don’t know, R50 is not even $2, but 15 years ago, you could buy a pizza and a bottle of cheap wine. Then came the swirling vortex of school, tennis, fuel, and the cost of groceries that don’t come frozen. Total fiscal panic. To top it off, I decided to quit my day job to follow the freelancing path to, well, I don’t know. Independence? Financial freedom? Becoming a paid writer? Has yet to happen.
Laundry and I are locked in a passive-aggressive standoff for control of my house. I conquer the mound of dirty socks only to turn around and find it rising again like a laundry zombie. Perhaps the true reason I quit my job to freelance is to cut down on the number of laundry cycles. I’m down to wearing old T-shirts and pyjama pants exclusively. My son doesn’t like wearing underwear. I don’t mind. Holiday washing days are a breeze. But where do the missing socks go? I may never know. In truth, the doing of the washing is not the problem. Neither is hanging it on the washing line. The taking down of said washing, and even worse, the folding and packing away, is where I lose the plot.
I have never wanted a dishwasher. Doing dishes used to be therapeutic, with moments of introspection and thinking up a poem or two. Until now. The sink is runneth over with dishes smeared in the remnants of dinners past, and I can’t use missing dish gloves as an excuse because I never buy any. Every night, I raise the white flag. I throw in the sponge. You win this round, dishes. The battle continues tomorrow.
Take care of your knees, or someday you’ll pay.
No. I am single as far as a gym relationship is concerned. Fortunately, I never fell for that one. Not my type. Joining the gym never sounded like induction into adulthood. Yes, to walks and yoga. Occasionally, when I am confident I can get up from the floor again. Walks involve planning, too. Mentally, it inevitably sets the scene for an aggressive feud between me and my inner couch potato.
There is too much to learn. I use three emojis and no acronyms. I don’t write complete sentences either, hoping that whomever I am communicating with can read between the lines. The learning curve feels insurmountable sometimes – from mastering new apps to figuring out how AI works. I watch my 8-year-old figure out games without reading anything and stand amazed. In my new role as a work-from-home freelancer, I do a lot of research and learning until my brain feels like one of those goats that go entirely rigid. Then I stop. Whatever I don’t know now, I can learn later.
Social media has never interested me. It was nothing more than an outlet for ‘witty’ quips and duck-face selfies. Now, because I must ‘broaden my reach,’ I use three different platforms. I don’t post personal stuff; it is mostly work. But oh, how easy it is to get carried away watching dog rescue videos, funny cats, or stupid life hacks I will never try!
Despite what you see in movies, my midlife crisis didn’t involve buying an animal sanctuary or getting a face tattoo (just a small one on my arm). It was an identity crisis—realising I had neglected my passions. I felt the urge to shake things up and realign with my true priorities. It was profoundly unsettling yet liberating—living intently rather than complacently.
Laughing through the chaos keeps me sane. Humour is the lifejacket that keeps me afloat when adulting threatens to pull me under. Sending ridiculous memes to my fellow middle-aged comrades helps me feel less alone. Venting to myself about chores over a cup of tea reminds me not to take it all so seriously. Things may not be perfect, but they don’t have to be.
As the middle-aged ringleader in my circus of life, I’m learning to embrace the rollercoaster of grown-up responsibilities while seeing the humour in it all. Sure, the laundry and dishes may defeat me, and I’ve clearly lost the battle of the bulge, but I now know happiness doesn’t have to look perfect. It’s found in everyday moments of connection with others. To be an adult only sucks sometimes. There’s a wild ride ahead, fellow adults. It may get bumpy, but we’re in it together. Now, who wants to sneak away for a much-needed mojito?
Intrepidly,