It’s half-time at the aging Superbowl. In other words, I’m at the age where I could be half way through my life. This realization has freaked me out a bit. Why should it? Age is just a number, right? Wrong.
It’s a BIG number. Still an attractive number, but with more lines creased in it and the number has skin that sags like the seat of stretch jeans worn too many times without washing.
My next birthday is only a few months away. Being midway through my life got me thinking. What daring thing can I do to commemorate this milestone?
I’m already married (that was very daring, but seems to have worked out), have two kids, (really daring and getting more so everyday) we own a house and a car. (Can be daring but lower on the risk scale.)
I’m not a big car person. I don’t really want a Maserati or Ferrari so the car I already have is fine. I can take the kids and three friends anywhere. I’m just glad I no longer drive the Mom Bus.
I’m not a celebrity so the idea of owning a mansion or an island is out of the question. I can check off daring to go for my dream job. So, what daring thing is left?
Get a tattoo! What? I know. My husband said the same thing. I’m not a fan of the tattoo. No offense to the inked ones. It just wasn’t for me. Plus, I hate needles as we learned from the Under Pressure blog post. But I couldn’t stop thinking about gettting a tattoo.
What would I get and where would I put it? Definitely someplace no one could see except the husband and especailly not my children. How can I tell them they can’t have one if I did?
What symbolized me and my mid-life crisis? My books have owls, three headed alligators and talking rabbits. Should I get one of those? Nah.
Chinese symbol? Maybe, but doesn’t everyone have one of those? The Italian flag? A yoga pose? Maybe a cupcake. Too cutesy? Perhaps. And the cupcake will become a pancake once the skin sags some more. Looks like I talked myself right out of the tattoo. But I have time to change my mind. It’s still half-time.