Natalie Whatley

“Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!  Get your tickets here!  Step right up and enjoy the show!”

Legal disclaimer: Unlike the Ringling Brothers, I cannot guarantee to wow and amaze or even provide “The Greatest Show on Earth”. The price of admission: a few minutes of your time. Sorry, unable to give refunds.  

After admitting I was in a similar predicament as Buridan’s indecisive donkey — dying of starvation and thirst while standing between a pail of water and a haystack — I got a phone call from the wise Gladys “Granny” Adcox of Highlands. I open my ears wide when she speaks because at ninety-four years young she has heard, seen, and practically lived through it all. I count myself lucky to know her.  

“Popcorn! Get your fresh popcorn!”

A sympathetic Granny accurately diagnosed my ailment — the midlife blahs — and offered counsel that gave me great hope: This too shall pass. It may take every bit of ten years to find the exit door, but leave it will. Having something to look forward to is nice.

Her words were such relief. The pressure to completely revamp my life post the-most-labor-intensive-child-rearing years has caused me considerable mental anguish.

“Soda! Ice cold soda, here!”

 The phrase “get a life” sounds simple enough to execute, but I’m not known for taking the easiest route anywhere. Stubborn or just not the brightest bulb? Feel free to reach your own conclusion. No offense will be taken either way.

Trying to figure out the next ten years as opposed to the rest of my life (hypothetically speaking, of course – I don’t forget for one second that there’s no guarantee of a tomorrow) feels so much more like the living in the moment I’m striving to reach.

“Peanuts! Hot roasted peanuts!”

After much reading, deliberation, and a mindset bent on lighting the endless circle of blahs into a ring of fire to somersault through, I have decided to join the circus.

World travel, nomadic life, and glitzy costumes can all be mine. I won’t have to answer to anyone except the audience. Who wouldn’t like to stand before a cheering crowd begging for an encore? My stomach and heart flutter just thinking about it.

“Get your swirling light sticks! Twelve dollars!”

At the bare minimum, I could feed the animals. They would appreciate it and look forward to seeing me. In the other extreme, I have years of experience as a ring leader. Those who can only run three rings have nothing on me, and I can crack a whip like nobody’s business.

As a mom, I’ve been contorting and walking a high wire while performing acrobatics for years. No wonder I’m feeling like I’ve been fired from a cannon.

Many days, life under the bog top sounds sweet, but of course I’m clowning around. A girl can dream. A hormonal woman stuck in midlife knows her best shot at circus employment probably involves being the side-show bearded woman.   

“Cotton candy!”

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

I’m not one to sit and watch television. There isn’t much offered in that medium that grabs my attention and leaves me wanting more. I am, however, suffering through the last season of “Lost” – only because when I start something I like to finish. I’m nearing the finish line of the final season and quite frankly, I’m still . . . lost. Sigh. But that’s not what has my mind a-whizzing as I sit down to pen my weekly offering.

It’s no secret that I’m spending some time muddling around in life’s middle ground. It’s a place I knew I’d visit “someday” but who knew I would arrive when I did. Every time I checked the roadmap, it always seemed far, far away.  Now, here I am, supposedly in the heartland. Yeah, it’s a region of special importance all right, and I could wax eloquent about its specialness ad nauseum. Let’s just say it’s an OK place to visit, but I don’t want to live here, or is it there? Doesn’t matter. The passing of time guarantees I won’t be staying.

That brings me back to television programming. (You know I have a quirky habit of flying around the runway a bit before landing the plane. Please remain seated and I promise to make a point.) Have you seen the television show “The Middle” with Patricia Heaton as Frankie Heck, the mom?  It airs on channel 13 at 7:30 Wednesday nights and is about a middle-class family, living in the middle of Indiana. I’m convinced the writers of the show have hidden cameras in my house and follow me around. Sure, they switched up a few minor details for cover, but the underlying themes: my middle life.  

For a long time I operated under the notion that middle ground was a great destination – a place of harmonious compromise where all parties were at least somewhat agreeable. HA! Ever heard of Buridan’s Donkey? He stands an equal distance between a stack of hay and a pail of water, but dies of hunger and thirst because he couldn’t make a rational decision to choose one over the other. I’m that donkey! And I’ll tell you why I can’t make a rational decision: mid-life. Believe me when I say I’d take a simple crisis over what this craziness has become any day.

I’m stuck on high center – front and rear wheels spinning like mad. I’m not allowed to go back and as hard as I may rock, I can’t quite get traction on forward, either. To make matters worse, I’ve learned I could spend a decade here! Starvation and dehydration are looking attractive.

Back to the show: The writers of “The Middle” are brilliant. Take the premise and consider the family’s last name: Heck. We all know what other word that one can fill in for while in polite company. (I’m a little embarrassed since I’ve used it here frequently.) I can’t help but to think the name is intentional.  I get it, and I take some comfort in knowing somebody somewhere, fictional or not, understands why being stuck here in the middle has turned me into the biggest donkey ever.  After all, it is asinine to stand still and expect to get anywhere.

© 2010 Natalie Whatley

Imagine if you will a strobe-lit room filled with balloons, streamers, and me throwing confetti above my head. Today marks a special day for me, and I decided to throw myself a little party. Welcome to episode 100 of my column! (I realize 100 is a mere drop in the column-writing bucket, but I wasn’t sure I’d make it this far.) Incidentally, my little celebration is a twofer as I’ll also be observing my very last birthday on Monday. I’m turning 39.

I’ve decided to stop there, because, well, the thought of admitting I’m 40 makes me cringe. I’ve got a year to make peace with it, so I guess I better get busy and seek professional help now.  

I keep hearing that 40 is the new 30, or even the new 20. Yeah, right. I suppose if one’s a multi-gazillionaire and has access to all the latest-and -greatest treatments and procedures, plus on-staff nutritionists, personal trainers, stylists . . . For the rest of us, 40 is 40. Sigh. I haven’t heard the song “Landslide” in quite some time, but for some reason it just popped in my head. And I prefer the Stevie Nicks version:

                Can the child within my heart rise above?

                Can I sail thru changing ocean tides?

                Can I handle the seasons of my life?

                Well I’ve been ‘fraid of changing ‘cause I

                Built my life around you

                But time makes you bolder

                Children get older, I’m getting older too

 As far as I can tell, I’m not buried under a large mass of earth that has fallen down a steep slope, so just maybe this phase in my life will be an overwhelming victory. Only time will tell. Stinks to be impatient.

It seems like just yesterday I was introducing my column and inviting you all along on the ride that’s shaping up to be my midlife crisis, uh, I mean journey to rediscover the parts of me that took the backseat to motherhood.

Putting aspirations on hold – at least temporarily – was a conscious and necessary decision given the particulars of my family. Then I found out like many before me that despite educating myself on the finer points of parenthood and giving it most of what I had, the whole business is a risky, uncertain venture riddled with variables that cannot be controlled.  

Those “variables” are going to force me to ratchet up my maintenance if I’m going to remain 39. Heck, who am I kidding? There’s already too much wear-and-tear.  I might have to revise my plan. Plus, I had some goals I wanted to reach by 40, and it looks like I may need a little extra time.

On second thought, I don’t think I want to be stuck at any age. Through hard-earned wisdom I’ve learned there are some points (possibly years) in life, where it’s desirable to move through a phase quickly. Not that I’m wishing away a single minute. I need to live through it all . . . that should provide at least another 100 columns.   

Thanks for celebrating with me, and for reading. I couldn’t have done it without you letting me know I’m not alone in struggling with the “variables”.

© 2009 Natalie Whatley