Weekend regurgitation: My midlife crisis is on back order

by Creative Junkie on March 13, 2011

In the past few weeks, I have done all of the following, some of them more than once:

  • Forgotten my name
  • Cried at a Kentucky Fried Chicken commercial
  • Mourned the puppyhood of Oliver who recently turned one in January
  • Thought about opening a Greek restaurant
  • Cried because I don’t know how to cook Greek food
  • Bought something new and fresh and exciting for myself at Charlotte Russe
  • Returned something completely and totally inappropriate to Charlotte Russe ten minutes later
  • Contemplated getting a tattoo
  • Cried while watching a Real Housewives of Orange County episode
  • Cried because Zoe is going off to college in approximately 520 days
  • Wailed because Helena is going off to college in approximately 2,700 days
  • Forgotten my name
  • Repeated myself

I leave you with a post I wrote last year about a midlife crisis. Time’s a wastin’ and pretty soon, I’ll have to request a three-quarter life crisis instead.

Happy Sunday, everyone!



I’d like a midlife crisis soon, please. While I’m still young enough to enjoy it.

(originally published March 11, 2010)


Dear God,

I am writing to inquire as to the status of my application for an Official Midlife Crisis. I believe I am deserved of such an event and have previously provided your staff with all of the documentation required, including but not limited to the following:

  • My birth certificate. Please excuse its crumpled condition as I became quite distraught while examining it, what with reliving my entire birth process and the eighties all over again. I’m not sure which event was more traumatic. While my birth year may look like a smudgy blob, rest assured that it does state 1967. Evidently, the salt from my tears had an adverse reaction to the typewriter ink they used way the hell back then. Also, please forgive my use of “hell” just now. It’s a compulsion, but you probably know that already since you equipped me with potty fingers. I just want to assure you that my use of such an expletive does not, in any way, suggest an affinity towards your nemesis.
  • Birth certificates of my two daughters. Please note that one is approaching the age where she will not only be getting her driver’s license but will also be allowed to date. Please note that the other one, while her birth certificate doesn’t explicitly state as such, is currently nine but going on thirty.
  • A copy of my marriage certificate evidencing my marriage of ten years, together with a supporting affidavit indicating that I have not had a full night’s sleep in ten years due to a husband who snorts the Navy Blue Angels up his nose every night before he goes to bed.
  • A security video of me having a moment in the middle of Wegmans when I discovered they were out of Ho Hos. In the event the audio is unintelligible, please note that I am hyperventilating in between shrieking OH NO, NOT MY HO HOS! NOT MY HO HOS! WHERE ARE MY HO HOS? WHO’S GOT ‘EM? I SWEAR ON MY MOTHER’S GRAVE I WILL KILL YOU, YOU SONS OF BITCHES. Transcript available upon request, together with an affidavit from my mother attesting to the fact that she is very much alive.
  • Medical records from the local hospital over the course of the past year documenting seventeen cases of whiplash sustained by my husband as a direct result of my changing my mind about paint colors and sex, both at the speed of light and sometimes even simultaneously.
  • Excel spreadsheet of hormonal surges with accompanying pie chart indicating the severity of the surge and whether it resulted in a frenzied sobbing fit, a violent act of rage or a complete psychosis, together with a corresponding video captured by my youngest daughter of me blubbering hysterically at the preview for the Real Housewives of Orange County reunion show.
  • Stool sample from the manifestation of my shriveled up fallopian tubes and eggs our puppy.
  • PowerPoint presentation of the thermonuclear energy produced by my hot flashes, as well as an embossed thank you note from the Department of Energy.
  • An assortment of various MapQuest printouts of local tattoo parlors, pole dancing classes and skydiving facilities.
  • Surveillance video of me perusing skinny jeans, jackets with fringe and other completely inappropriate clothing at places such as Hot Topic where I have no business shopping.
  • Handful of tweets suggesting lustful thoughts of karate instructors twenty years my junior.
  • Copy of youngest daughter’s fourth grade math homework covered with corrections and bearing the advice “Helena, please do not let your mom help you with your homework anymore” right next to a big sad frowny face.

It is my hope that the foregoing meets all your criteria for batshit crazy and that you approve my application for Official Midlife Crisis status as soon as possible, before perimenopause sucks my will to live.  Should you need proof of purchase of a boob job/tummy tuck/Botox/complete overhaul, please advise as soon as possible as time is of the essence. The local plastic surgeon has a waiting list a mile long and I might not get in before full onset menopause at which point, I will be too busy shaving my face and drowning in boob sweat to enjoy a crisis of any other kind.

Thank you for any and all consideration.


Creative Junkie




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