Yesterday I wrote of middle age. A time when many people begin an existential crisis, resulting in behavioural changes such as buying a motorbike, a high performance car, writing inanely random blogs and wrapping your head in adhesive tape……. What do you mean no one else wraps their heads in tape?
I penned of an age group melodramatically clinging on is by their finger nails to times of fine physical fettle, travel health insurance costing less than the holiday and people not giving up their seat for you on a train.
I can always remember an old work colleague saying to me when he reached 50, “Middle age is merely your youth with padding.” I’m not sure if the padding he referred to was that of an expanded waistline, or the absorbent type used in incontinence pants. Or both….. I never asked!
I didn’t pay much mind to his thoughts on reaching the landmark age; to me it seemed too simplistic a view of the aging process. They appeared to me to omit large swathes of other transformations that would take place as dusk fell on pre-middle age.
Additionally, I was 23 years old at the time and, to be honest, had more on my mind in those days, such as not exposing my whispy moustache to the elements on breezy days. Not to mention trying to work out what Karen’s dad meant when he told her, after we’d had a night out, “Yev getten a phazen cazll urlier tha niddly noo!”
Amazingly, Karen knew what he meant and asked her beloved pater, short of comprehension and even shorter of arse, “Who was the phone call off then dad?”
“Wey it was yon lassie from Criggy Craggy. Ye nar Ribby Robson’s darter, Sozaphy!” her less than articulate fatha announced.
Human males normally contain X and Y chromosomes, however Karen’s dad’s are B&Q. It means he’s not the brightest, but he’s chuffing brilliant at DIY!
I’ve no idea if Karen ever rang Ribby Robson’s darter back, but I do know her dad made them an impressive bidet out of balsa wood, and skilfully crafted a hanging basket from a crows nest. Although I don’t think the crow was over impressed to see his home overrun by petunias and trailing lobelia!
I’m making that assumption as for months after his hanging basket craftsmanship, her father was constantly sporting crow peck scarring on his face.
Personally, I’ve found turning 50 an era of awakening. The dawn of hither to oft hidden wisdom. I’ve had a challenging few years some through my own stupidity, but lots that wasn’t self inflicted.
Through the tougher times on this rollercoaster journey, I gain solace from the following words of French writer Marcel Proust:-
We don’t receive wisdom. We must discover it for ourselves on a journey no one can take for us, or spare us.”
Prophetic words that hint at what I’m going through is something I had to undertake. However, on the plus side he muses that from these more difficult times there will be subsequent growth as a person.
I’m bringing this blog to a halt now as Ribby Robson’s darter Sozaphy on the phazen!
