Learning how to deal with a midlife crisis was challenging, not unlike the other seminal events of midlife, menopause and sexual dysfunction.
After my husband died, I realized I needed to downsize and start over. But I didn’t want to. My stuff was my history, my identity, my nest and my friend.
I feel like my aging from 40 to 60 was an achievement, a master class in change management. In those two decades I earned my PhD in me.
Sun exposure, age and genes predispose me to skin cancer, and I’m likely to have a reoccurrence of actinic keratosis. Fortunately, I’m rich and powerful, so I don’t have to worry about healthcare access and affordability.
It’s Christmas Day, my 52nd Wednesday post for 2019. That was my goal, and I did it, so I’m feeling good. Not that it was easy. I made quite a few mistakes. Maybe you noticed.
I remember the days of the Miss, Mrs., Ms. fight. I checked the Ms. box because I wanted the right to define myself.
In a few naked minutes I learned that self-diagnosis is worth exactly what you pay for it.