I’ve lived my life in the middle. The middle kid with a rebel without a clue older brother and a little sister who, at least to me, could do no wrong.
On long car trips they would make me sit in the middle. Then they would start in with their own special brand of torture. My brother would start it with the inevitable, “You’re in the mi-dul. You were born in the mi-dul and you’re in the mi-dul. You have the mi-dul colored hair.”
My sister would add “You’re the mi-dul height,” followed by my brothers, ” You have the mi-dul sized teeth. You have the mi-dul colored eyes.”
The end was always a commentary by my brother about the egg-shapedness of my head. And then there would be the farts I was forced to smell and he would pretend to lea-yick (lick) my face.
I tell you the above not because I am scarred by this, not really. Nor have I spent any time on a shrinks coach pondering my damaging childhood. I share this as a way of establishing my credentials. I should be an expert on living life in the middle.
As a child I was either too old to get away with what my dear, blonde, gorgeous little sister did. OR, I was much too young to go off and do the things my rebellious older brother did (possibly a good thing). I was there, stuck between two extremes.
So it does not come as a surprise that middle-age sucks. I should be ready to handle it. My life should have equipped me to take on everything that being in the middle of life can throw at me.
And yet, just like a child saying “That’s no fair”, I resort to a small tantrum.
It’s not fair that I have to deal with Acne AND Wrinkles and grey hair all at the same time.
It’s not fair that now that I NEED the energy of my youth, I don’t have it.
It’s not fair that I can cook and bake amazing meals, but SHOULD eat a rice cake instead.
Being born in the middle sucks.
Being middle class sucks
Being middle aged sucks…
But it’s all better than the alternative.