At what age should you stop fretting about what you are not, give up on your ideal identity that only ever exists in a delightful dream of the perfect self and accept the rubbing-your-nose-in-it reality of who you actually are, warts and all?
I mean, I’m fifty six years old. I have a husband, three adult children, six grandchildren. I achieved a First Class Honours Degree at forty, and after a lifetime of wondering what I might want to be when I grow up, the realisation has slowly dawned that I’m so beyond that building-towards-the-future stage of life it’s no longer even funny to joke about.
My whole adult life to date feels like it has been layer upon messy layer of unremarkable mediocrity, muddling along invisibly in the middle-ground somewhere, qualifying neither as a fully-fledged failure nor a sparkling success. A boring jack of all trades and master of none. Why oh why can’t I just be OK with that, what’s wrong with just being average?
Forgive me, I’m feeling decidedly old today. Past it. Yesterday’s news. Fat and frumpy and over the hill with a vengeance, well beyond my ‘best before’ date. It hurts like hell to admit, but it feels like it’s time to understand once and for all there is no more ‘new improved’ potential waiting on the horizon for me, that ship has long sailed… Sigh!