Often I find when I make this declaration, people have very specific reactions. They either a) shake their heads and chuckle in that “awww isn’t she cute yet completely weird and potentially dangerous” kind of way b) freeze and make an instant decision right there I can never be trusted again or c) fall to their knees with respect because how could it be that someone could actually feel the way I do??
I love middle school kids.
No, seriously, I do. This is not a drill. They captivate me as they stand on the precipice of puberty yet still manage to cling to innocence and the wild creative soul of their 5-year-old selves. I have two of my own (well, one has just recently surpassed middle school), and I have spent hours working with middle school kids as a theater director. They can go from hugging love bugs to demonic Children of the Corn in 8 seconds flat, and that is my very favorite. This age-bracket of groovy little gifted babes still hold the intense imagination from their childhood games of pretend while also having the sarcasm of late-night talk show hosts and ability to call you out on absolutely everything they deem incorrect or just plain dumb. They are quick to take sides and point fingers, but also just as quick to swoop in like a pack of protective hyenas if one of their own is threatened. Middle school is that unique and absolutely mind-boggling time when our babies truly begin the arduous and sometimes brutal climb into adulthood. I remember my own middle school years well. This time in life is like living inside Dorothy’s hormone tornado- everything you once knew is blowing around in every direction, you can’t hear anything outside the roar of your own anxiety and all you really want is your Auntie Em and your best friend, Toto.
That is also a spot-on description for middle age.
Now, don’t. Just do not. Do not say that phrase to me. It’s worse than the F-word. Well, ok, I love the F-word, but……..
Mid-life crisis. Nope.
I love all words, too much mostly, and the word “crisis” has a definite and useful place in the English language. Famine, war, terrorism, global warming, Trump…..these each can be defined as a “crisis”. And I do understand that moment of looking into a mirror, deciphering the grease level of one’s hair while contemplating dry shampoo vs. regular shampoo and all of the sudden realizing with darkened roots one can see 60% of the top of one’s blonde head has gone grey. Gasp. When did I become Cruella De Vil? That moment has a slight air of “crisis” about it, for sure, but I still stand firmly AGAINST the notion the 40s need to be labeled as the middle of a disaster.
So, after a few moments of wailing and gnashing of teeth on the bathroom floor and an instantly-broken vow to shave my head like Joan of Arc, I did what any rational young woman would do, and I made a list. A list of details. Of all the very cool things, not crisis-y things, one can notice about being in the middle:
- Re-released Technicolor- The 30s were foggy and muddled with breastmilk and babies and postpartum greyness (not hair), and sometimes I don’t remember everything about pieces of my life then. My husband will say “hey do you remember that time when…?” and I just stare at him with huge, annoyed vacant eyes because I was mommy brain-dead for a majority of my 30s. But now, just like the re-release of The Wizard of Oz, the poppy field is so red and vibrant, and I want to snuggle up in that golden, fluffy lion’s mane. Seeing all of the colors gives me more courage and self-confidence. I do not need a creepy dude behind a curtain for that.
- Dorothy’s Empathy- I’ve always had the nerve center of a jumpy squirrel and the whiskers, too. I feel everything and want to rush to the aid of all of Oz. This empathy has deepened considerably as of late. The need to fight like hell for those I love and what I believe in settled deep into my soul right about 40. I do not have all of the answers, this is true, and most of my advice stinks, but I will listen to you and put my arm around you and squeeze until you don’t need me anymore. Then I will use my newfound courage to speak up, loudly, for those (myself included) who need a voice.
- No more Glinda the Good Witch- And I’m not really the Wicked Witch of the West either (don’t ask my kids about this, please). I am me! The good and bad, neither of those descriptive words are really relevant. I am all mixed together into the crunched-up, realistic pieces of Cecily. I have stopped apologizing for who I am and the things I still want to be. The other day, Piper announced during a meeting with an Admissions Counselor for a new school for Zoey: “My mommy cries in the Whole Foods parking lot sometimes but it’s ok.” hahahahaha Before being “in the middle” I may have tried to cover for this embarrassing fact by making up a story about how somebody tried to steal my purse in the parking lot, but instead, I looked my new Admissions Counselor friend dead in the face and said “yes I do, and I think we all need grocery store parking lots for occasional breakdowns.” She whole-heartedly agreed, and we had a good laugh. I THINK Zoey may still get into that school. But guess what? Glinda the groovy-badass-funny-slightly-messed-up-and-perfectly-human witch won’t care, and we will move on to the next school if necessary.
See? The middle is ok. There is more to my list, but another thing about being in my 40s? I get tired and just need to walk away from the conversation every now and then, curl up with myself, my dog and my favorite book. So I leave you with this. One of my favorite authors, Debbie Ford, writes (in reference to your one life):
“This is not a dress rehearsal.”
Indeed it is not. I’ve had plenty of those. They are usually slow and clunky and every actor screws up so badly. It’s why post dress-rehearsal, actors can mostly be found in dark, smoky corners rolling on the floor with their empty bottles of whiskey and a heart full of self-loathing. Forget the dress rehearsal crap. As I tell my middle school actors, bad dress rehearsals mean grand performances. The curtain is rising. Places!
So, off we go, grey hair and crow’s feet and all. Follow the yellow brick road onto your stage. Bring your sarcasm, your hormones (or lack thereof), your witty talk-show selves, deep love bug hugs and demonic fierceness. We will need all of that.
Bravo, my darlings, your 40s performance is just fabulous. Keep going, the second act is the best part, I just know it.
xoxoxoxoxoxox
