I seem to be on a roll lately, taking on new endeavors. My good friend in New York just laughs into the phone and proclaims it a midlife crisis. Ouch. I never thought of myself to be "that age." My vision of a midlife crisis is a leather-jacketed man well into his 50s who starts life anew one morning with the purchase of a box of hair dye for men, Ray-Ban Aviator sunglasses, and a red convertible. Apparently I am wrong.
"Look in the mirror," she teases. "You're it, babe!" My pal claims I am trying to recapture my youth. I, however, object. Who wants to go there again? I have no interest in returning to the days of restlessness, bad skin and bungling dates. I'll take my age-defying night cream over acne scrub any day.
No, my decisions of late have less to do with attaching a bungee cord to my younger days than they do with proving it's never too late to try something new. I thought my activities were unremarkable until my friend presented a different opinion. Why the fuss? I had a spirited youth, and what I'm doing now is rather tame. The conversation went something like this:
Pal: "Where were you Sunday night? Of all nights, I thought I'd catch you home."
Me: "I was out with some friends. You'll laugh. I was out playing futsal."
Pal: "What the heck is futsal?"
Me: "It's like soccer. It's played indoors. You work up a good sweat. A friend convinced me to give it a try."
Pal: "Are you sure you weren't the cheerleader?" (This was a sarcastic jab at my past. I attended a parochial school where the two choices for sports for girls were to be a cheerleader or just look like one. I chose the former and she has not let me forget it.)
Me: "No, I played, thank you very much, and yes, I stunk. But I still played. There were several other 40-something women playing, too. Collectively, we had over 400 years on this planet. Some young college girls joined the game, and I doubt that their ages added up to the century mark. It was hilarious."
Pal: "You're crazy. You're probably going to break something. I'm afraid to ask what else you've been up to."
Me: "Did I tell you I'm taking piano lessons? For as long as we've had it, the only time I touch the piano is to dust it. I decided it was high time I stopped tickling the ivories with the feather duster and learned how to play. The idea of me trying something new is a real laugh riot in this house."
Pal: "You really are crazy."
Me: "I also want to move to a warmer climate, but my husband won't cooperate. So instead we are ripping out the kitchen. Oh, and did I tell you about the trip I just took?"
Pal: "A-ha! You're not crazy! You're having a midlife crisis."
Me (emphatically): "No way! That's ridiculous. I'm too young for that."
Pal (patronizingly): "Okie dokie, toots! You tell yourself whatever you need to!"
I still don't agree with her diagnosis. I'd like to think I'm not at the midpoint yet; still on the northward climb up life's mountain. Moreover, I'd also like to think that when I do get there, I'll do it with gusto. If my friend thinks this is a "crisis," then, as the song goes, she "ain't seen nothin' yet." Running around a gym and playing piano? Not how I plan to spend those glorious days ahead. I won't hide it; I'll hit the Vegas strip, belt out (off-key) Tina Turner in karaoke bars on Saturday nights, maybe go blonde and sport a bikini. I might even seek out that warmer climate. Kitchen renovations? Forget it. I'll tear the roof off and add another story. Now THAT's a midlife crisis. Why, I think I'm even looking forward to it now! Thanks, pal!
