At 47, half your life is done. The big questions are supposed to be over: What should I be as an adult? Will I have kids? Who should I marry? Where can I live? And… do I have enough money for that full-moon party trip to Thailand?
Or are the question really over? How much can I toss up in the air again without ruining the lives of all the people suddenly depending on me—including myself?
New Pipe Dreams
- What’s the Storyline This Time
A cruel an unusual punishment for me as a child was when an adult - in my case almost always an overzealous parent - committed me to go to a museum.
I am fairly sure, that the trauma stemmed from one very specific incident where my parents had dragged me to the world-renowned museum, Louisiana, beautifully situated on top of a lush hill, looking over the dark blue sound, separating Denmark and Sweden. I was dragged through clinically white room after clinically white room with paintings with dots, squares, stripes, and triangles - at least that’s how I remember it, but mostly I remember the feeling of such intense boredom, sitting like a pit in my stomach, that made me feel like I was being cauterized from the inside out. I felt locked in a situation that was so tedious that the tantrum that followed would probably, in todays terms, have been dubbed as a full blown panic attack.
You see …? Cruel and unusual punishment.
The Vision-board Life
After that, I avoided art museums like the plague or covid or the zika virus or what have you. Until one day, during my stint at the London School of Journalism, we had to write a review of an exhibition at the Tate Modern art gallery. I moaned with conviction to everyone around me claiming that I would not know what to write about, since art to me, no matter what was framed, touched me like a blank canvas. I felt I had moved into my years where I was landing on my path. My likes and dislikes had been mapped out. I had made a study choice - Political Science and Journalism, and, as soon as I landed my first adult job and would meet my guy, I would not have to worry or ponder anymore about my future way ahead, like I had done all the years leading up to that moment.
When I finally got my job and married my “soulmate”, there was relief for sure. And my vision board life went all right, with, admittedly, a few detours, and a gnawing feeling of being out of place, that I would mostly ignore. But when my divorce was final at 47, I found myself writing (bad) poetry - an art form I had always sidelined with the modern art experience from my childhood. And the poetry turned out to be the gateway drug to more heavy shit. A mere initial drop from the floodgate of new decisions, career choices, and interests about to be unleashed, along with new questions to be answered.
Pope Dreams
And I’ve just realized … This is my second chance, my do-over, my rebirth, my second coming of age-story and I never - not in a million years during my dreams about my future when I was a young adult - thought that life would throw me a curve ball like this. That my life would once again demand a search for new ideas, new interests, new images, new plots and themes and a kind of reinvention that I only thought was possible for midlife women in corny Hallmark-movies and for women with a much worse storyline than mine.
As a kid you have the freedom to dream. You can be anything! A famous rockstar, an explorer in the African jungle or, if you ask my kids, a You-tuber. As a kid, I didn’t ask for much … I just wanted to be THE Pope (although I was not a man, nor a catholic for that matter), an archeologist, a professional handball player, a dancer, a diplomat, a war-correspondent, a psychologist, an actor and a news anchor. To name a few. Expect for the Pope pipe-dream (sorry, couldn’t resist), my dad supported each and every one of them and even added a few to the list for me to think over; pilot and university professor in French and English. My options were wide open.
When it came to choosing a future partner and lover, the same applied. My only limitations were finding someone I liked and finding someone who liked me back. I later discovered that having the same values and dreams and goals in life when it came to love and partnership mattered a great deal, but I didn’t know this at the time. Would it be the study-buddy, would it be the ski-instructor, would it be my salsa partner, would it be my new colleague, would it be the guy I met in Australia …?
It was all a little like throwing up a deck of cards in the air and just wait and see which one landed face-up and play my hand with those.
Now that I am here again, some things have proven a little more tricky. I am partially responsible for little people in a way young adult me wasn’t. I have to make sure they have a place to live, food every day, clothes … The basic stuff and also provide them other stuff that makes them feel safe, warm and loved. Back then I mainly had to try to do that for myself, and I sometimes failed.
I have to have a steady income, so I can’t run off poping and stuff. I can’t move full time to live in Costa Rica, although I really, really want to (I can tell you how much I really, really want to), and I certainly can’t make big life decisions from one day to the next, although that is very much in my young-adult nature.
Sourdough is Out - Surfing Isn’t
The upside is, that I DO have a nice and warm place to stay. I do have some money and, in some areas, I am way wiser and have inevitable amassed some of life’s wisdom that comes with just being in the world for longer.
I will not become a Pope, but I will become … Something else. Be a full-time writer, write stories about love and life. I will live, at least part-time, until no little ones are dependent on me anymore, in the jungle by the sea, and I will become a better surfer. I can’t promise that I wont write poetry again. Maybe I will take classes at the local community college. I will travel to new places and I want to meet that guy that I still haven’t met. I will do all the clichés and try to do some that aren’t. I will learn more about plants. Sourdough might be off the table, but investing in stocks might not be. The full moon party is undecided, but who knows …
Who is with me? We ride at dawn.
Teaser for next week:
Since my divorce, I’ve had two guys—both fits the patterns of my 20’s.
One, a well-spoken, dashing douchebag. The other, a homeless surfer who didn’t want a relationship.
Closer to 50, I’m still … and still asking: Where is the love—or am I just too old for this shit?