Mid-life Crisis

It’s my fifty-third birthday and I’ve taken the day off to celebrate.

I spread my birthday cards out along the mantelpiece (so that it looks like I got more than I did) and arrange the beautiful bouquet from Zoe.

Patty is ranting away.

‘A cat and a book club?’ she asks. ‘How old are you today – ninety?’

She’s brought birthday bubbly and olives, both of which she is quaffing voraciously.

‘So he gets to bonk and you get a book? He gets pussy and you get a cat?’

I grimace at the unsavoury connotations.

‘He gets a trollop and you get Trollope?’

We both nod acknowledgement of that one.

‘Any more?’ I ask.

‘No, I’ve run out for now. But seriously, that’s your plan?’ says Patty.

‘It’s a start,’ I reply.

‘It’s not a start, it’s a finish,’ she warns. ‘You’re saying, “Just walk all over me; I’ll hide in the corner and keep out of your way.” Cats, books and cardies? That’s your fresh start?’

I’m about to protest about the cardigan-swipe but then I look down at my sensible knitwear and close my mouth. Patty hands me an article.

‘Here read this. Fifty is the new forty and, get this: fifty-three is the new middle age. You’re perfectly entitled to a mid-life crisis. Get a Porsche, a toy boy, even a vibrator – but please not a cat.’

After briefly considering that I doubt I’ll live to 106, I have to admit I’ve always fancied a mid-life crisis but was never sure what to do. I don’t want a toy boy; I’d have to have a Brazilian (I imagine). And I don’t want a Porsche; I like my Mini.

In fact, I’ve never considered what I do want out of life; Alan and Zoe always came first.

‘Come on girl, don’t go maudlin on me,’ says Patty, ‘tonight, we are going to party.’

And we do.

Patty pours us both a glass and puts on Now That’s What I Call Music 1983; she turns up my ancient CD player as high as it will go and ‘True’ by Spandau Ballet fills the house. Tony Hadley serenades me as I take off the cardie and put some lipstick on (daring stuff, I know). I empty my glass of Prosecco for courage and put myself in Patty’s hands.

We’re lucky enough to have every type of restaurant you could ever want within walking distance, but Patty reminds me that there’s more danger of bumping into someone we know if we stay locally, so we get the tram into the city centre. We start at a tapas bar I’ve read about but never visited. We enjoy copious cava along with tortilla, serrano, chorizo, patatas bravas and Manchego – even the words make your mouth water – and we’re soon reliving our stewardess days. We do the spoof safety talk for the gorgeous waiter and then torture the poor guy by making him pose for selfie after selfie, which Patty posts on her Facebook page to prove to the world we’re having a good time. The waiter doesn’t realise how lucky he is: Patty used to be in charge of mouth-to-mouth training so it could have been far worse.

We get a cab home and Patty serenades the poor driver with ‘Joe Le Taxi’ for most of the journey despite knowing only those three words of the song. Thanks to the bubbly, I find this hilariously funny and my jaw is aching through smiling when I eventually turn the key in the door. There are worse injuries.

My birthday continues into the next day. Still high on life I go to work and find the shop decked out to celebrate my special day.

Charlie likes to back the underdog, and since the divorce that’s me. After being reassured the cake is not from Amanda’s shop, I blow out the candles and make a wish to my fresh start – whatever that might be.

Maybe fifty-three is the new thirty-three after all.

It takes a phone call from my daughter when I get home to bring me crashing down to earth.

‘Who was that on Facebook?’ she asks. ‘He looks young enough to be your son.’

I’m slightly offended. On the night I didn’t feel the age gap was that big (I wonder if it ever does) but have to confess that if I’d met the poor waiter while sober, I’d have been more tempted to give him a hot meal and iron his shirts. Fortunately Patty has mainly posted pictures of herself and him; I’m only peeking out of the corner of a couple. Surely this is some recompense for Zoe.

‘I was just having some fun, getting on with my life like everyone tells me to,’ I protest.

‘You need to stay away from that Patty,’ she says. ‘Everyone can see those pictures, you know; once things are uploaded to the internet, they’re there for ever. What will Dad think?’

I hope he thinks, ‘Wow, she’s having fun with a hot young guy’ or even ‘Dammit, I want her back’, but I suspect he hasn’t even seen them.

I put the phone on speaker and go to make a coffee while my daughter continues to tell me about the perils of the internet.

‘I do know how the internet works,’ I tell her. ‘I’ve only been using it for twenty-odd years.’

She wouldn’t be the first person I’ve heard saying over fifties don’t understand technology and while I’m not Einstein, I’m not Joey Essex either.

‘Then you should know better,’ scolds Zoe.

I’m so dumbfounded, I tell her I’m sorry and promise not to do it again.