Elan Morgan is a writer and web designer who works from Elan.Works, a designer and editor at GenderAvenger, and a speaker who has spoken across North America. They believe in and work to grow both personal and professional quality, genuine community, and meaningful content online.

My Crisis, My Sheep Babies

Is November the month for feeling old and worrying about ageing? Because this seems to be what I'm doing. The whole thing makes me feel older than actually being old would make me feel.

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?

sexy sheep

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.

I am taking part in NaBloPoMo, National Blog Posting Month, which has me posting a blog entry every day throughout the month of November.

Five Star Friday's 264th Edition Is Brought to You By Roald Dahl

331/365: Raw Fibres