Cheer Up, Loser

On Doldrums, Wallowing, and Enough Already

I just had a birthday, and I have to admit that at 58-years-old, my next stage of life feels more limited than ever before.

The possibilities and potential of my past, the ones we all have when we’re younger, like one day becoming a TV star, or traveling to all seven continents, or marrying George Clooney and moving into his Italian villa, are now less “some day” and more “uh probably not gonna happen unless George hits his head really hard.” It’s not easy to downgrade your dreams, even when it’s the practical thing to do. Do I need smaller, more attainable dreams, I wonder? Should my fantasy be that I’m going to be gifted with a dozen eggs, then I’ll act surprised when my husband brings them home from the grocery store? Maybe.

But between the pandemic, the non-stop bad news and tragedies in the world, the stress of getting my kids into college and my now empty nest, plus middle-age ennui, and everyone everywhere always fighting about literally anything, my mojo has been somewhat replaced by nameless dread.

Every morning I wake up with a plan to make a fresh start and seize the day. “I’ll exercise and write and make a delicious dinner and feel good!” I say. But it never works out. By 5 p.m., I’m once again mindlessly eating crackers, watching true crime documentaries and having thoughts like, “You know, joining a cult wouldn’t be so bad. You get the leader’s initials branded on your pelvis for free.” Despite my best intentions, some days I can’t shake the little rain cloud over my head. And even when I manage to, one look at the news and it’s back on the low grade anxiety merry-go-round again. I hate it, which is why I keep this cross-stitch on my desk.

Easier stitched than done, of course. It’s not that easy to cheer up and take on a world that seems to get harder with each passing year. But what’s the alternative? Do we bury our heads in the sand and pretend everything is fine, like most of the women in my cul-de-sac do? The ones that hear there’s been a shooting at the mall and post, “I hope it’s still open tomorrow because I have a facial scheduled” on Facebook? No. That’s gross.

I know I’m not alone in this. Last week I texted a friend to ask how she’s doing and her reply was, “Okay, I guess. BETTER THAN OUR CLIMATE’S FUTURE, ANYWAY.” Another friend has a list of things she wants to do “before democracy finally collapses.” And more than one person I know is facing their future retirement years with the dread of working at Wal-Mart instead of traveling the world like our Boomer parents did in their golden years.

This should be Gen X’s time to celebrate and enjoy life, but how can we be excited for the future when a box of Wheat Thins now costs $7.00 and our precious babies are now living lives without us? When high crimes happen right before our eyes with no punishment? When some of the rights we’ve had for our entire lives are now gone? When we can’t afford to move out of our empty nests and instead watch our houses decay into Grey Gardens? Even something fun like going to see a favorite band before they die is problematic because a ticket to The Rolling Stones now costs as much as our entire 1990 college tuition.

Yes, I know I’m whining and that these are champagne problems in the grand scheme, but it’d also be nice to go an hour without muttering, “What the f-ck.”

But when I find myself wallowing, I try to pull myself out with this thought: most middle-aged women like me are in a unique time in history where we can kind of do whatever we want without repercussions. Spend two minutes online and you’ll see that society has gone a little Wacko Wild West. That’s not always good (hello, January 6), but I think we can make it work for us. Nobody’s paying attention to us, anyway, so let’s embrace the weird. Get off your ass and write that erotic thriller and don’t use a pen name unless it’s about sexy dinosaurs. Visit your grade school pen pal. Hike up a mountain but only if you know that you can also get down. Or start a podcast about cottage cheese or your obsession with Duran Duran or just anything at all. Most podcasters now are men, so let’s hear your voices, ladies. The podcast I do with my friends Mariana and Ann has maybe two regular listeners, but it’s a big bright spot in my life.

I do try to focus on the happy things, even if they’re small. I also try to avoid crying in the closet while blasting “Everybody Hurts” by R.E.M. on Spotify’s Classics from the 1900’s station but I’m not always successful. Smaller dreams may not be as grand or exciting as those in our younger days, but they’re dreams nonetheless. Like maybe I don’t move into Clooney’s villa, but I can ride past it on a Amalfi Coast tour bus that I booked on Costco.com and wave at his gate. That still counts, I think.

I hope I can embrace this meh time in my life and use it as an opportunity to let myself go. Not “let go” appearance-wise, but maybe a little. No more f-cking bikini waxes, that’s for damn sure. But I want to let myself go metaphorically, too. Let go of the old hangups. Of relationships that no longer work. Of outdated ideas. And let myself go physically to new adventures – to the concert, to the class, or to the weed dispensary to get some “glaucoma medicine” even though I don’t actually have glaucoma. Well, not yet. I assume I will at some point because I know how to spell it.

I’m trying to remember that I’m standing on the precipice of my Eccentric Years, and it’s time to put on a party hat and lean in. Why not get louder? Why not get looser? Sixty is in my crosshairs, so why stop living now? I’ll try my best. I will not go gentle into that pair of elastic waist pants.

Thanks for reading!

—Wendi

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