Marching On Into Middle Age

A few weeks ago, I went to the doctor for my annual. I absolutely despise going to the doctor for a couple of reasons.

First, my gynecologist looks to be about ten years old and while she is obscenely smart, it is evident that she is still quite newly off the medical establishment nipple. She can barely contain her sigh when I ask if we can explore more holistic options before reverting to the pharmacy. I tolerate her superiority complex because she is attentive and thorough and I just know that one day, once she has some years on her, she will soften in her scorn of anything alternative. Besides, she is quick with her prescription pad and this is sometimes very useful.

The other reason is that having a pap smear today is no less uncomfortable than it was twenty years ago and frankly, that chaps my ass. I cannot understand how it is that we have unlocked the genetic code but I still have to sling my feet up into a set of stirrups. How can technology exist whereby one can witness the growth of a baby in utero, in 3D no less, and I'm expected to get excited about KY Jelly that has been warmed for my comfort? You see? I'm not feeling the love from the scientific community. There must not be any money in speculums.

Anyway, this year I was pretty serious about the exam. I'd been experiencing a few medical issues which concerned me and I was slightly terrified as to what they might find. My brain ran through every possible scenario, except the obvious, apparently.

Doc: Everything looks great.
Me: Oh that's a relief. So why is this happening?
Doc: For the same reason that you wear bifocals.
Me: Huh?
Doc: Because you're getting older. Period. The average age for the onset of menopause is 51 but women can be peri-menopausal for up to five years before that.

(Which means there are times when you're batshit crazy but without the estrogen replacement therapy)

Me: But I'm 41, not 46.
Doc: Yes, that is true but you smoked for twenty five years and women who smoke tend to slip into menopause about five years ahead of their non smoking counterparts. So, you are right on time with your symptoms.

Excellent. The first stirrings of menopause.

The bad news is that, at nearly forty two years of age, my doctor is going to put me back on the birth control pill (whose package instructions I CAN NO LONGER SEE TO READ) to help regulate my rogue menstrual cycle.

The good news is that apparently, there are THOUSANDS of women in their forties who are experiencing the same things as I am and getting some relief from the pill. The strange thing is that I don't feel middle aged most days. Sure, I don't see well close up anymore but that works for me because in addition to the fine print being unreadable, my cellulite and wrinkles have also softened to a blur.

I came away from my annual exam thrilled to be healthy but uncomfortable with the thought that one day, sooner rather than later, I would no longer be able to bear children. It's not that I want any more babies (HELL NO) but I'm sad that the ability to do so is coming to an end.

Menopause firmly draws the line in the sand between a woman's youth and the beginning of her mature years.

I wonder if there is a support group.

And if they serve alcohol and chocolate at the meetings.

Goodbye Bread. So Long Pasta.

I'm cranky.

I haven't had a decent carbohydrate in over a week. Even milk chocolate is starting to look good. I eyeballed my kids' Hallowe'en buckets this morning and seriously contemplated some sticky finger action. My son picked up on the desperation because I overheard him tell Olivia, "You should hide your candy." It's not like they couldn't spare a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup or ten.

Most of the women in my office are on some sort of diet. When you combine the food restriction with monthly hormonal fluctuations, you can imagine the atmosphere. Four of us have lost significant weight and while we rejoice about it every day, there is an edgy undercurrent. Although the men have said nothing (so, so smart), they seem to sense that the jovial mood is a mere baguette away from lunacy. They're like deer. They stop, sniff the air and get a hint of danger but too often, they're standing upwind and can't tell they're in the cross hairs until it's too late.

One of the girls is restricting herself to 500 calories a day and a supplement from her ND. Five hundred calories. You know what that looks like? 6 eggs. 5 slices of dry toast. A Big Mac. She claims the supplement staves off the hunger and she is down about 12 pounds in 10 days but 500 calories? I'm not sure my body would continue to breathe or pump blood and I definitely know that I'd be dangerous in a manic, for-Christsakes-feed-me sort of way.

Skinny Steph the Magnificent refuses to weigh herself but the pounds have obviously melted off of her. I suppose the extra weight she was carrying on her left earlobe was bothersome. She's been watching her carbs and after witnessing her shed a pant size in a week, I jumped on the low carb wagon. I hate my scale but today, I succumbed.

I am down a total of 10.6 pounds in 10 days. I have lost a pant size.

Rah, rah. I am pleased with the results but why does everything really good in life have to be illegal, immoral or fattening?

There is some motivation, however. I was speaking with sistah cousin the other day about our spring break plans. Originally, we were to go to Vermont skiing. As you know, I was slightly apprehensive at the thought of barrelling down the side of a mountain so when she told me that they were having a hard time booking my accommodations for that particular week, I wasn't too upset. Instead, of skiing, we have tentatively decided to meet back at Disney. I'm thrilled except for the prospect of spending a day at one of the water parks stuffed into a Miracle Suit.

NOT THIS TIME!

I have made myself a promise that my next trip to Blizzard Beach will see me in a cute little two piece. Period.

How's that mid-life crisis coming along, you ask? Just bloody dandy. Now bugger off unless you've got carb-free dark chocolate that doesn't taste like a laxative.

NaiNai is Chinese for Grandmother

I'm taking a break from the travelogue to update you on a piece of info that took me several days to digest.

I'm going to be a grandmother.

I reflect back to February and the difficulty that I had getting my head around the concept of turning forty. Hmmm....

GRANDMOTHER!!

Jesus. Isn't it bad enough that I now own three pairs of bifocals? What's next? Incontinence? Menopause? Cross Your Heart Industrial Strength Bras? It's like I turned forty and bought a ticket on the express train to over the fucking hill.

Did I mention that I have another daughter? And no, she is not a love child conceived with Sting in the 80's. This one is my ex-husband's daughter and although she did not spring forth from my loins, she may as well have.

Tiffani became a permanent part of my world in 1995 and our journey together has not been easy. From the very beginning, I struggled to love her unconditionally, which was a concept missing from my own childhood. She was never taught boundaries and sometimes, her need for love and approval was like a sucking black hole. It seemed like she couldn't be sated. I despised that perceived weakness in her largely because it mirrored my own personality flaws. Somehow though, I managed to survive her adolescence and she endured my Martha Stewart vision of motherhood. When her father and I split, he insisted that Tiffani live with him. I didn't put up much of a fight because she was fifteen and the anti-Christ. I do regret not being more of a presence in her life because the last four years have been difficult for her but it seems that she needed the time to find her own path.

Which brings us to a month ago when I received a call from her.

"Mom, I think my thyroid medicine needs to be adjusted. I'm tired all of the time and I've gained a bunch of weight around my middle."

It didn't immediately hit me. I asked her if her hands and feet were cold or if her fingernails were breaking. She answered, "no" to the first two questions and then told me that it was strange but her fingernails were unusually long and strong these days. Well, shit.

"Tiff? Could you be pregnant?" She was less than confident in her reply and I told myself that she was just being paranoid.

A week later, I received a text from her saying that it was urgent that she speak with me. After the initial shock wore off, we tried to figure out how far along she might be. Our best estimate was 16 to 20 weeks based upon when the nausea subsided and when the last pregnancy test turned out negative. Tiffani claimed that she was feeling the baby move, which is unlikely at sixteen weeks so I told her it was probably just a little gas. She made an appointment with the doctor but would have to wait several weeks to be seen.

In the meantime, I got a look her naked belly and asked her how in the world she had not known. I asked her boyfriend, too, because he slept beside her every night and she was clearly pregnant or had a pretty serious tumor. Either way, a doctor's visit was warranted weeks ago. She said, "I was in denial." You think?!! I remember hearing the story about the girl who went to the hospital complaining of stomach pains and gave birth claiming that she did not know she was pregnant. I thought that was a bunch of horse hooey until now. Fear is a compelling agent of denial.

Last week, she experienced labour pains and ended up in the hospital where they measured her belly and did an ultrasound. It turns out that Tiffani has indeed been feeling the baby move. She's 29 weeks along.

I said, "Tiff, that baby has been kicking up a storm for at least the last ten weeks. Honey, what did you think was going on in your belly?"

"Indigestion," she replied. Yep. My eyebrows were way up there, too.

My grandson is due on Christmas Day and the truth is that I'm excited. Sure, the conditions are not ideal and this is not what I would have wanted for Tiffani but I had the choice to disapprove of a situation that cannot be changed or to embrace it and support my daughter. I opted for the latter.

Just don't call me grandma.

(Gulp)

Yet.

Little Girl Comes Home

Yesterday, after work, the kids and I went back to the Harley dealership to pick up the Sportster. Dave, who was in my motorcycle class, just happened to be the person who got the bike ready for pick up. He made it shine. I apologize for the photos. I have no picture taking talent.

After supper, while the kids were getting ready for bed, I took her out for a quick spin through my neighbourhood. She is so much more responsive in the lower gears and much, much lighter than big boy. Two hundred pounds makes all of the difference. I am so much more confident riding this bike. Little girl has come home!

And now, I've officially become one of THOSE people who talk about their motorized vehicles like they live and breathe. But they do, don't they? I haven't named her... yet (does "Little Girl" count?), so I suppose my metamorphosis into a total motorhead is not fully realized.

The kids are with their dad this weekend. Guess what I'm going to be doing?

Live to ride, baby.

Impulsive? Me? Naw...

Saturday morning marked my one week anniversary as a motorcycle operator. I took the Harley out for a short spin in my neighbourhood and confirmed that my model is designed for experienced riders. The Street Glider is a touring bike and it performs like a dream at higher speeds but tooling around in second or third gear makes it feel heavy and cumbersome for someone who still has to think about EVERY single operation.

Scan ahead. See stop sign. Get ready to gear down to first. Check mirrors for traffic behind. Pull in clutch. Gear down with left foot. Check mirrors for traffic, again. Use right foot and find rear brake. Decide on left or right turn. Steer to proper lane position. Roll off throttle. Apply front brake GENTLY with right hand. Get ready to put feet down. Left foot down. Right foot down. Steady....

This thought process is automatic for anyone who has ridden for any period of time. For me, it is an exhausting brain drain. Looking back, I have always learned like this. In university, I bought a five speed car without knowing how to operate a stick. I took a two minute lesson from the kid who washed the cars and then I DROVE the car off the lot. The first stop light I encountered had me on an incline. I stalled, cranked it back up, stalled again, missed the light, had traffic beeping at me from behind, shed a few tears, turned it over again, put it into first and when the light changed, I gave it way too much gas, let go of the clutch and squealed through the intersection. I was sick to my stomach by the time I made it home. The next morning I got up, saw my keys laying on the hall table and decided that I was going to take the car over to one of the university parking lots to practise. I never looked back.

The experience with my motorcycle is slightly different, though. Now, I am twenty years older and I understand that I am mortal. I am keenly aware that a serious accident on my bike could leave my kids without a mum or worse, with a burden that needs to be fed and changed. My cousin, Ashley, suggested that I park my baby and buy an inexpensive smaller bike to use to develop my skills. Dallas had advised something similar.

So, I went back to the dealership. While there, I ran into Tim and we chatted for a bit. I asked for his advice, as well, since he was intimately familiar with my riding skills (or lack thereof). I was trying to decide between a Buell Blast (which I had learned on) and a 2002 Harley-Davidson 1200cc Sportster. Without hesitation, Tim recommended the Sportster as a good bridge. He felt the Buell would not be challenging enough. I tested the Sportster out back on the range and she was lighter and more responsive at lower speeds.

I put a deposit down and I'll probably pick her up today if I get the right price. Tomorrow, you'll be able to find me on the corner panhandling for food money.

Harley and Me

I passed! I passed!

On a cerebral level, I knew that there was no possibility that I was going to fail my written test because unlike some of my university courses, I actually attended the classes. However, being slightly type A, I felt it necessary to suffer through small pockets of apprehension until it was confirmed that I was an official Rider's Edge graduate. I have not wanted anything this badly in a very long time.

After our test, we had a few minutes to peruse the showroom floor before our graduation party got underway. I was so grateful for this time because I FINALLY made a decision on a bike. For days, I had been eyeballing this beautiful, red, Road Glide with a fixed fairing but I wasn't happy with the aesthetics of the nose and I couldn't put my finger on what actually bothered me about it. Then Chad, a fellow classmate, cleared it all up.

"Looks like a Gold Wing." And it does.

So, I left that one behind and took a closer look at the Street Glides. This is the bike that makes my heart quicken so.....



I bought it.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go put my head between my legs and breathe deeply.

Hog Wild Weekend

I spent this entire weekend on a motorcycle. It was beyond awesome. Nirvana.

Thursday night started my Rider's Edge course, which is sponsored by the Harley Davidson dealership in my town. The class was comprised of twelve people and four of us were women. We had a blast. On Thursday, we had just over three hours of class time. Friday was the same. The time you have to spend with your nose in a book is very similar to sitting through the whole "rules" portion of the Academy Awards. A necessary evil but not especially scintillating.

Saturday was different. For the bulk of the day, we were on the bikes. Did I mention that we had torrential rain? Oh, it was awful. We got through three exercises with a little light rain. I asked one of my instructors if I should get my rain pants on and he said he thought it might pass. Well, on the fourth exercise, the sky opened up and we got soaked. I am not talking damp where you might be a bit uncomfortable. This was run your hand down the leg of your pants and water streams off. Absolutely miserable. I actually wrung out my leather gloves.

Lest you think that there wasn't a silver lining....soaking wet jeans called for emergency action. I had to shop.

Determined, I strode into the merchandising section of the dealership and tried on a pair of Harley jeans. I came out and the sales girl looked at them and said, "You are floating in those. Can I get you a smaller size?" This would be the part in the story where I heard harp music and the sales girl was suddenly bathed in a beautiful white light.

"Why, yes. I will take a smaller size." I don't know if is my amped up exercise program or if Harley Davidson is just generous in their sizing but who cares? The whole experience made my day. I ended up buying two pairs of jeans and a black belt with silver studs that just screams biker chick. Nirvana, I tell you.


Anyway, we had classwork to finish so we chose to do it during the downpour. Later on, the rain had slowed to a steady sprinkle and we tried again. It's funny how perspective can change. By the time we were able to get back on the bikes, we were grateful for the drizzle and the opportunity to be one with our rides. The only mishap was one of the girls laid down her bike. For those that don't know, this means that she lost control and the bike went over. We cheered, though, because we were told that at least one student does this with each class. We were glad that Sarah had taken the brunt for the rest of us.

Sunday morning, I woke up and felt like I had been beaten with a blunt object, particularly around my tailbone. My thighs were on fire and my left hand was sore from the clutch. It didn't matter, though. I couldn't wait to get back on a bike. We rode ALL day, drill after drill.

Early afternoon, while doing a challenging drill through a curve, I LAID MY BIKE DOWN...just barely. Part of the problem was the fact that I couldn't straighten my left arm but I knew that and I should have compensated. Ah well. It was the source of genuine concern from my fellow riders and then gentle abuse once everyone could see that I didn't suffer a scratch. The great thing was that it wasn't the $25,000 bike I'm planning to purchase. I also learned how to pick a bike up, the knowledge of which I plan never ever to need again.

Ten minutes later, Jeanie laid her bike down too. So, along with Sarah, we three became crash sistahs for life. And no, it isn't a woman driver thing. Plenty of the guys weebled and wobbled but didn't fall down because they were strong enough to counter gravity. This is what I will tell myself so that I'll sleep at night.

Later afternoon, I made up for it. On my riding test, during the quick stop drill, I came at the instructor in second gear going about 26 miles per hour (roughly double the required speed). At that velocity, I was able to stop the bike in 11 feet, which happened to be the best of the class. My instructor, Tim, said my performance caused him to have a religious moment. Anxiety will do that for you. I will say that when I crossed the cones, Tim's eyes were as big as saucers and his mouth formed a perfect "O"...

....like Mr. Bill.

So, I passed the riding portion of my exam and the written test is tonight. My favourite motorcycle is sitting on the dealership floor and every time I walk by, he calls out like a siren:

"Buy me, Beth. Think of the times we'll have together. Just you and me and the open road. You know you want me. Come. Be one with the hog."

I may just lose that September 15th bet after all.

It's Good to Be Forty

This has been a weird week.

On Tuesday, my daughter claimed to be ill. She came downstairs, refused her favourite breakfast and said she didn't feel well. She looked pale and felt clammy to the touch. I suspected that a visit to the toilet might do her a world of good but she insisted that she'd already been there and done that. I explained to her that staying home from school meant she would have to stay in bed all day without TV, sidewalk chalk or her bicycle. She made the choice to go back upstairs to bed. Well, I thought, she MUST be sick. About an hour later, I heard her up in the bathroom and fearing she would vomit in the sink (her usual MO), I flew up the stairs but stopped abruptly at the top because I could hear music. In her special little girl voice punctuated with new kindergarten moxy, Olivia was softly singing:

"I didn't have to go to school to-day. I stayed home with Mummmmmmmy".

I turned around and went back downstairs to my bathroom so I would have the benefit of a mirror while removing the giant hook from my mouth. Needless to say, she spent the rest of the day in bed with nary a hint of sensory stimulation. That night, she dramatically wiped her brow with her hand and told me she was soooo happy that she felt sooo much better. Uh huh. Let me tell you a story about the boy who cried wolf.....

__________________________________

Wednesday, I went out for a run in my neighbourhood and noticed that the sidewalks were filled with toads. I guess when the sun goes down, these warty creatures come out and hug the cement for warmth. I was convinced that I was witnessing the Apocalypse in my subdivision since "plague" is only loosely defined in Revelations. They were gross. I tried to take a picture to show you how one toad's eyes defied the laws of physics but the iPhone doesn't have a flash. The worst part is that I don't see well in the dark. I am not a feline, bat or an owl so jumping off the sidewalk onto the road is always a crap shoot for me. One day it could be success, the next could mean knee surgery. Anyway, the queerest thing was that the toads WOULD NOT HOP AWAY. My feet were pounding down right beside them and they didn't move. I had visions of scraping squished amphibian out of my shoe treads and it was more than I could bear. I moved to the street where every leaf looked like a tarantula and every stick resembled a snake. When I got home, I was relieved to find the children still in their beds so the Rapture hadn't happened after all. I won't be running at night anymore.

__________________________________

Yesterday, I got to see my favourite Dr. Sexy Metro Boy and when I left his office, I was feeling positively sassy. He told me that I was a "stud" because I had healed so well and had such great use of my arm. He lavished me in superlatives and I basked in all of that good patient glory. On the way out he asked me to wait because he had something to show me. Then, he goes into this office and comes out with his brand new iPhone. He tells me that he got it because of me. Small talk and more basking ensued. I told him I was learning how to ride a hog this weekend and he lifted up my pant legs apparently to see what my shins looked like before I tore the skin off of them. Now, that is just not positive thinking but no matter. I still have a crush.

And speaking of my Rider's Edge course, I learned one major thing tonight. Motorcycles are a little bit like pregnancy. Everyone has a horror story about some friend of a friend. So far, the other eleven people in the class seem great. I met one guy who just turned forty in January and like me, his fascination with Harley Davidson has roots in a mid-life crisis although I don't think he would actually coin it that way.

And hey, I know that I appear to be the poster child for the whole crisis scenario but I am having the time of my life right now and I wouldn't change one thing. This isn't a crisis! It's EVERYTHING I would have done in my twenties if I'd had two nickels to rub together. In class tonight, I learned that one of the other instructors owns the most reputable tatoo parlour in town. Coincidence? I think not.

It's good to be forty.

How Do You Say Freedom?

This weekend, while contentedly in the throes of my mid-life crisis, I did two things that made me really, really happy.

First, I went to my local Harley Davidson store and signed up for the course they offer to teach you how to ride. For a reasonable sum, you get twenty five hours of instruction, a written test and a road test. After it is all said and done, I will be able to meander down to the DMV, whip out my official certificate and after a mere ten question "test", they will add motorcycle to the list of vehicles that I am able to operate. I.CAN'T.WAIT.

In preparation for the class, I was told that I had to acquire some gear.

Oh, darn.

Riding boots were the top priority and I was cautioned that I would not be allowed on a bike without them. Well alright, then. The trouble with riding boots for women is that they are just all kinds of ugly. I landed on these and they happen to look great with a pair of jeans.

The second directive was that I must wear long sleeved shirts. I am in the south and the weather is likely to stay a balmy 85 degrees well into this month so I figured that if I am going to sweat, I might as well do it in style.

While at the store, I was able to look at some of the bikes and my salesperson gave me a crash course on the different models and what he felt would be the most suitable one for me. If I decide to buy a bike, I think I've got it picked out. Of course, that is a big "if".

I have found that walking into my local Harley store has the same effect on me as a bookstore. I get all tingly and excited. A friend of mine bet me that I would be a proud Harley owner by September 15th. I'm thinking that a mid September date might be a wee bit early but who knows? Once I make up my mind on something, it's usually just a matter of time. But, I will admit that the sense of freedom is intoxicating.

The second thing I did this weekend was take an impromptu flight...in a single engine, 4 seater Cessna.



I have been toying with the idea of learning to pilot a plane since flying on a corporate jet several years ago. After slogging through commercial airports and suffering through episodes of missing luggage, raised terror alerts, late flights, mechanical issues and cramped seating, the allure of private flight captured my attention. I don't think that I am destined to purchase a plane because I'd have to sell one of my children to afford the fuel but I like the idea of knowing how to fly.

And, you can't beat this view of our local lake from 5500 feet.

Easy Riding Mama

Harley's name is Dallas. I should have just used his real name right off the bat because nobody would have believed it. I asked him how it was that a kid from New Zealand gets named after an American city. He shrugged and said it was popular at the time. Simple. The good thing is that I have never dated another Dallas and thus, I do not have any negative name associations. Anyway, we spent a fair chunk of time this past Sunday cruising on his Harley and I feel like I've been bitten by a stange, exotic bug.

We began the morning on the golf course trying to squeeze in nine holes before the heat became unbearable. Unfortunately, Dallas's clubs were forged during the bronze age so he struggled a bit and I got to see another side of him. I had a friend tell me that I should conduct at least one date on the golf course because performance anxiety in front of a new friend combined with the inherent frustrations of golf would allow me to get an immediate look at the anger management capabilities of any suitor. Well, in spite of the fact that Dallas and his clubs weren't on speaking terms, the worst epithet of the morning didn't come from his lips. I won that contest. Shocking, I know. He merely became quiet. His friend, Brandon, says that Dallas isn't coy and doesn't do subtle well because he was tragically deprived of American spy movies in his formulative years. I agree that Dallas is easily read but he's so even tempered that this comes off more like strong and silent than bleeding heart.

We ended up leaving early because the heat was suffocating and every time I drove the ball, my hand felt like I had stuck my fingers into a light socket. I had lightly mentioned to Dallas that perhaps a good Christmas gift for him might be a new set of clubs, which he took in stride at the time but later, at Starbucks, he couldn't keep his true thoughts to himself. As he was handing me my latte, he begged me not to spend a penny on golf equipment for him.

He was clearly tortured.

Instead, he suggested that I might want to peruse the local Harley Davidson shop in December......for something he might actually use. Oh well, he did agree to suffer through the occasional round of golf when the weather cooled.

So back to the ride. Dallas had changed into motorcycle gear and the whole look (jeans, shirt and boots) captured my attention. I had tried to dress appropriately but I couldn't bear the thought of jeans in 200 degree weather and I do not have one article of clothing that is authentic HD. For shame. I did make an effort by switching purses to a black leather with silver studs Prada and Dallas inexplicably, found this highly amusing. The point is that the Harley Davidson store is emitting this siren call and my resistance is wearing. There is this whole slightly naughty sub culture that appeals to me on a level worthy of psychoanalysis but the bottom line is that I want to learn how to ride and I am eager to shop for some cool new gear.

I have also been flirting with the idea of getting a tattoo.

I know that I now appear to be a neon, blinking, poster child for mid life crisis but I've been thinking about this for a bit and I may just go and do it if I can find a doctor who will prescribe a morphine drip. I have to face the truth. There is a leather-clad, do rag-wearing, tattoo-sporting biker chick inside of me who is trying to claw her way out.

I casually mentioned to my ten year old son that I was thinking about getting a tat and he looked at me, snapped his fingers in my face and said,

"Who are you and what have you done with my mother?"

Midlife Crisis

I was speaking with my friend the other night and she expressed that perhaps the recent lifestyle changes could be attributed to my very own midlife crisis.

Huh? Are you kidding me? Midlife crisis is for people in their forties.

*blink*, *blink*

Hmmm... maybe she is onto something.

Yes, I have recently taken up golf. Yes, I have spent an obscene amount of money on equipment but can you really equate my Big Bertha's with ..say..um..a shiny, new, Corvette? I'm not so sure. Of course, the (sexist) argument could be made that sweet golf clubs draw men like mosquitoes to a zapper.

Yes, I got divorced but I didn't get out of my marriage to jump into a relationship with some hot, young boy toy . I left because I spent the better part of each day trying to convince myself that killing my ex husband in his sleep was not the answer. I was intimate with that just-under-the-surface, bubbling, festering, barely controlled rage.

Yes, I have let my hair grow long because it makes me feel more feminine, not younger. You see, as I have aged, the resemblance to my father has become more pronounced and short hair merely accentuated the issue. Besides, that whole pixie look is for young, perky women who don't have to step into their bras in the morning.

Yes, I have purchased a few (thousand) anti-aging products. I could pack a week's worth of clothes in the bags under my eyes. I had even budgeted for Botox until I was introduced to Arbonne. Soon though, even great skin care products will not be able to stop my eyes from falling into my head (like spitting into a snowbank...thanks Norma) and I am determined not to go gently through middle age. I'm not talking Joan Rivers or anything quite so scary but plastic surgery is most definitely in my future. I have a laundry list...

And finally, I suppose I am much more serious about my health. The reality of this is while you still feel great, the body starts to betray you in little ways. The common cold, if accompanied by cough, can be a challenge for any woman who has had more than one child. Carrying your kids up the stairs can make your knees sing. Having one too many cocktails now wipes out the entire next day. This isn't mid life crises, it's the epiphany that happens when you realize that you have to do everything in your power to maintain good health because your quality of life depends upon it.

My mum said that your forties are a great time...even better than your thirties because you still look good, have money, some life experience and you are finally comfortable in your own skin.

Yeah, I like that.

So, if my lifestyle has changed, it is because my perspective has shifted. and if this is a midlife crisis, well I just want to welcome it with open arms. Oh yes, and just because I divorced for all of the right reasons doesn't mean that I'm not open to a little May-December thing. Isn't that what being a coug is all about?