Wednesday, 10th December Diary
So, picture this: my family hands me, Sarah, a posh voucher for a luxury spa in Bath for my forty-fifth. The moment I saw spa, hydrotherapy, and pampering, I was hit with a wave of nostalgialike Id been given a ticket back to my wild, cheeky days. Honestly, the whole thing felt like a sly dig, but I put on a brave face, thanked everyone, and even let a few tears slip outno one at the tea room clocked that those tears were pure nerves, a bit of disappointment, and that weird ache you get when you realise the kids are growing up and the years are just vanishing.
How did all those years slip by, and who decided forty-five was the new prime time? I hadnt felt fresh in ages, but surely I wasnt ancient yetstill, that spa voucher made me wonder if Id crossed into raisin territory. My mates, godparents, and work pals, after a few too many Pimms, were belting out tunes and dancing like the floor was lava. I kept worrying the fancy restaurants tiles would crack under the chaos. Go on, live a little! they shoutedso I tried, or at least pretended.
No matter how hard I tried to look lively, my five-inch heels and designer shoes kept reminding me I was no spring chicken, and the shapewear my daughter picked up from Oxford Street squeezed me so tight I thought Id pop. Warning bells, love! kept ringing in my head. All I wanted was to dash home, chuck those torturous bits in the wardrobe, slip into my fluffy slippers, wriggle out of the shapewear, and collapse into my nightieTom calls it the parachuteand just melt into bed. But I had to keep up the act until the cake showed up.
Id spent the whole week getting ready for this big day. Monday was nails, Tuesday brows and lashes, Wednesday was waxing (yes, everywhere), Thursday and Friday were for recovery, and Saturday was hair and makeup. Even after the cake was cut and boxed up for those who couldnt eat another bite, the party kept rolling.
I wanted cake so badly I nearly cried, but I held firm. Id survived three weeks of a fitness gurus dietchicken breast and barley, day in, day out. All that just to squeeze into a gorgeous Vivienne Westwood dress (Linda, my best mate, brought it over for motivation). The endless chicken and bland barley haunted me. Ill start clucking soon, or lay an egg! I joked. But on my birthday, I looked the part.
As midnight crept in, guests drifted off, sneaking cake into their jackets and sparkly handbags, hugging me so hard I thought my dress would split. Off I went to the spa, bracing for disappointmentwhat could hydrotherapy really do? But the place was actually quite swish, almost exclusive if you squinted.
The catch: it was full of folks over fifty, all nursing dodgy backs. Years hunched over spreadsheets had left me with a spine that creaked like an old staircase, so I fit right in. I got paired with a seventy-something lady who looked like a dandelion puff. What on earth will we talk about? I wondered.
Everything about my roommate grated: the shuffling walk, the overpowering lavender perfume, the neon leggings, and the dentures soaking overnight. Not even the lovely countryside or the top-notch service could calm me down. I stomped about like a grumpy bulldog, though my fleas were just bitter thoughts about getting older. This is itold age! I sobbed into my barley-husk pillow.
A few days in, things got worse: the doctor ordered daily dips in the geyser pool, and I, genius that I am, had left my swimsuit at home. So, off to shop! Well, shop is generousamong endless stalls selling wooden whistles, wool coats, and cheddar, not a single swimsuit. On my way back, fed up, I popped into the supermarket for a Mars bar and a massive coffee (the Westwood dress had already split, so who cared?). In the aisle with cheap socks and garish hats, I found a classic black one-piecejust my size. I rolled it up tight so no one would spot the double-X before the L on the label.
The cashier, a sweet young woman barely out of school, smiled as she rang it up. I felt a pang of envy for her fresh face, tiny waist, and shiny hair. If you want, theres a fitting room! I can show you, just to be sure it fits, she offered. I was convinced she was having a laugh, hinting at my age and extra pounds. I wanted to snap, You shouldve seen me twenty years ago! I turned heads on Brighton Beach! My figure, my skinrunways would have bowed! I was
My rant was cut short by a honking sound. My roommate, the dandelion granny, was clutching roller skates and standing next to a pink scooter with a horn. I stepped aside, embarrassed. Buying gifts for the grandkids? the cashier asked. No, Im learning to skate between treatments! the granny winked.
Two weeks later, I came home a new woman. At Paddington, I told Tom we needed bikes, a trip to the ice rink, and hip-hop classes. At home, I binned the parachute-nightie and reached for my five-inch heels. Tom looked baffled, so I hugged him and whispered, Whats the fuss? Were just getting started! That crisis is ages awaylike pigs flying! He blinked, still clutching the car keys, as I grinned with a mischief I hadnt felt since my twenties. Honestly, Tom, brace yourself. Im not about to start knitting tea cosies or collecting porcelain cats. I kicked off my trainers, wiggled my toes, and declared, From now on, Im living in full colour. You, me, the kidswell be the family that rollerblades to Tesco and moonwalks down the high street.
Tom, still stunned, managed a crooked smile. Youre serious? he asked, half-hopeful, half-terrified. I winked, grabbing his hand. Absolutely. And if you think my midlife crisis is going to be about beige cardigans and crossword puzzles, youre mistaken.
That weekend, I dragged everyone to the bike shop, tried on every helmet, and the sales assistant nearly lost it watching me attempt a wheelie in the car park. The kids, mortified but secretly impressed, watched as I zipped around, shrieking with laughter. Tom, after a bit of grumbling, ended up wobbling along behind me, dignity somewhere near the water bottles.
By Sunday, Id signed up for hip-hop lessons, convinced my youngest to join, and even got Tom to try a beginners class (Youll be fine, just pretend youre at a wedding disco!). The instructor, Jamie, had hair like a hedgehog and moves like a squirrel on espresso, and welcomed us with open arms. In my new trainers and leggings, I felt ten years younger.
At home, I purged my wardrobe, tossing anything remotely frumpy into a charity bag. The parachute-nightie was binned, replaced by pyjamas with flamingos and a slogan: Too Glam To Give A Damn. I strutted around, humming pop songs and plotting our next adventuremaybe salsa, maybe paddleboarding, maybe Glastonbury (Well camp! Well dance! Well eat questionable falafel!).
Tom, finally catching the bug, started researching cycling routes and bought neon socks. The kids, resigned, started bragging to their mates about their mad mum who could out-dance anyone at the school disco. I kept my black swimsuit handy, just in case the urge for a dip struck.
So, the midlife crisis that threatened to flatten me turned out to be the best thing ever. Instead of fading quietly, I became the whirlwind at the centre of our familys new adventures. If anyone asked, Id just laugh and say, Crisis? What crisis? Im too busy living. I even started a group chat called Operation: No Beige, roping in friends and neighbours for impromptu dance-offs and Sunday park runs. The WhatsApp pings never stoppedmemes, GIFs, and invites to try goat yoga or join a flash mob outside the library. My calendar filled with dares: karaoke at the pub, pottery classes, and a midnight swim at the lido (Tom drew the line at skinny-dipping, but only just).
Linda, my best mate, turned up one night with a ukulele and prosecco, declaring, If were having a crisis, lets have a soundtrack! We serenaded the neighbours until someone threatened to call the council, and I laughed so hard my mascara ran. Even Bertie, our chunky spaniel, got swept up, trotting around in a sequined bow tie and barking at joggers.
At work, my colleagues eyed me as I swapped sensible blouses for leopard print and brought kale smoothies to meetings. Mr. Jenkins, the office manager, asked if Id joined a cult, and I just winked, Only if the cult leader lets me wear glitter. I volunteered for every committee, suggested themed dress days, and once got the whole accounts team to do the Macarena at lunch.
Emily, my daughter, rolled her eyes but secretly loved it, especially when I showed up at parents evening in a neon pink blazer and told the head I was considering a gap year. Ben, my son, started filming TikToks of my dance routines, and soon Mad Mum Moves had a modest following. My inbox filled with comments: Youre a legend! Goals! Can you teach my mum?
One rainy Tuesday, I booked a spontaneous trip to Blackpool, dragging Tom and the kids for a weekend of arcades, fish and chips, and dodgy fortune tellers. We rode the dodgems, got soaked on the log flume, and ate ice cream in the drizzle, laughing at the madness. I bought a sparkly hat and wore it everywhere, even to bed, declaring myself Queen of the North.
By spring, Id signed up for a charity fun run dressed as a flamingo, convinced Tom to try paddleboarding (he fell in, obviously), and started learning Spanish from an app that kept congratulating me for streaks. I hosted a Eurovision party with homemade bunting and a scoreboard, and cheered so loudly the neighbours joined in. The house was never quiet, never dull, and I loved every minute.
If anyone asked, Id say, Im not having a crisisIm having a renaissance! And as I twirled through my days, I knew Id never go back to beige. Lifes far too short for sensible shoes and silent regrets.
Lesson learned: Sometimes, the only way to outrun a crisis is to dance straight through it.
