I have nothing against age, so I'm not sure what this is all about. I've actually been looking forward to my forties and fifties for two whole decades already. I have had a feeling that forty is when I would find my footing, and here I am finding my footing, feeling happier and more together in some ways than I ever have before, and yet I am worrying that I will somehow end up alone and die unknown in a hole somewhere.
Is this natural? Tell me this is natural. You do this, right?
I took an Onion-imposed nap earlier today, and it was filled with bizarre dreams all centred around how I was going to grow old, abandoned and weird. Apparently, my subconscious chose to symbolize this by pretending I bought sheep, called them names like Edna, and declared them my children. I wrote their names on their sides in permanent marker so I could tell them apart. I woke up with Onion's foot in my eye.
This is how people start a mid-life crisis. They grow their hair long in a last-ditch effort to pull off a youthful side pony, throw on a ruffled skirt like it's 1989 and they're the next Debbie Gibson, and harbour secret desires for sheep babies named Marilyn.
Just to be clear, I am not growing my hair out for a future side pony, and ruffled skirts look ridiculous with my hairy, hippy legs. I actually like the sheep idea, but I don't think they fair well with apartment stairs.
Also, just to be extra clear, I am not having, nor am I entering, a "mid-life crisis". I had a life crisis at seven, nine, twelve, fifteen, nineteen, twenty-four, thirty-four, and thirty-seven. To declare any particular life crisis a "mid-life crisis" just seems like ageist stereotyping of what is apparently my native condition.
Let's just call this my annual "November crisis", in which I declare myself decrepit, doomed, and in need of sheep babies.