Midult mantras
1. We didn’t come this far to only come this far.
2. Life: Not for pussies.
3. Onwards and sideways.
4. She did it anyway…
5. I am dynamic, I am invincible, I am exhausted.
6. I took the road less travelled. Now I don’t know where the hell I am.
Things that every Midult understands
1. That we talk more about sleep than we do about sex.
2. There is no such thing as a comfortable bra.
3. Your relationship with your grocery-delivery service is one of your most significant.
4. Nothing good happens at 3am.
5. People who don’t go to therapy are far weirder than those who do.
6. Not to panic every time you think, “What am I doing in this room holding this spoon” — it happens.
7. Chin hairs are part of the rich tapestry of your daily existence.
8. If someone had told you three years ago that in the future you would buy a jumpsuit, you would have laughed. You probably own at least one by now.
9. Grey hair is beautiful. Grey roots make you look unhinged.
10. Sometimes all it takes is a bath.
It was a strange moment. There we were, round a table in someone’s house; someone’s vast, architected, converted west London showpiece, where the sofas were George Smith, the table was vintage Italian and the food was carb-light. The assembled company of six were all women in their 40s.
They felt untouchably successful, these women; an entrepreneur here, a creative director there. ‘Annabel!’ said one. ‘How are you?’ And I suffered a kind of Tourette’s moment.
I was supposed to say, “Fine!” or maybe, “Busy!” or perhaps, “Oh, you know.” But I was at saturation point with “fine”, “busy” and “you know”. “I’m so anxious I’ve completely stopped sleeping” just slipped out. Oh God.
There was a nano-silence. And then every-one started talking at once. “I’ve been on anti-anxiety meds since last year….” “I don’t want to have sex with my husband but I love him and I know I have to….” “I’m terrified I’m going to lose my house….” “I’m grief-stricken about not having a baby.” And so that evening shifted. It got… interesting. It got funny. We connected.
When do you become a grown-up? When do you have to ‘adult’? When does the worry of youth subside to be replaced by emotional equilibrium and a feeling of control? It doesn’t.
Though teenagers may be repulsed or amused by grown-ups having feelings – of fear, of lust, of fury – they will find out, decades down the line, that these tidal waves alter but do not abate. In our 20s we foresaw a dulling of emotion. A settling. Well, that didn’t happen.
We – Annabel and Emilie – found ourselves in battle mode. We had, between us, negotiated extreme panic attacks, solo motherhood, bitter money worries, nuclear break-ups, drinking, dieting, insomnia and anxiety. Our anxieties had little baby anxieties.
But when we turned those anxieties on their bony little heads, we got laughter. They became, if not fun, then at least funny. And when we came out about our bottomless pits of secret shame, we found that shame cannot survive being spoken about.
In our early 40s we felt deranged yet rational. What better mood in which to start a business? So we launched the (website) Midult – as a counter-proposal to all the pelvic-floor-squeezing, and Aga-centric oppressive worthiness. As a challenge. As a connector. We launched the Midult to rebrand middle age.
Middle age starts at 35 (although everyone pretends it starts at 55, just as everyone pretends menopause will only happen to other people), and it is not exactly an aspirational concept, is it? More of a prison sentence with the whiff of defeat and – when it comes to women, at least – desperation. And so both of us, stiffened with anxiety, fired up with unforeseen ambition, ploughed on into Midulthood.
Midulthood, we established as we tackled entrepreneurship (why does calling ourselves entrepreneurs make us feel like idiots?) and ridiculously invited more risk into our already worried lives, is where anxiety meets potential. It’s about evolving towards who you really are – what Simone de Beauvoir called ‘coinciding with yourself’. Swerving yourself is no good in the end. And by the way, this is not the end.
Look around and you’ll see that midlife is no longer a question of hopping on the conveyor belt towards death. No longer a question of allowing all the choices you’ve ever made – professional, financial, sexual – to concertina in on you. The rebrand is happening in real time.
Midults are negotiating the terror, Tinder, pay rises and egg-freezing. We’re taking advantage of the confidence, the digital literacy, the wisdom. We’re living the rage, the resolution, the reset and the ‘hear me roar’. Midulthood is a mood. Maybe it’s a movement. Put down that coffee and come on in, the water is lovely.
The midlifer’s guide to avoiding hangovers
At school, we were not good at maths — not good at all. “It’s not that you’re bad at maths, it’s just that you think you’re bad at maths,” they said, which we thought was silly at the time. And yet, as life filled to bursting, leaving little time for intricate calculations and even less time to pause to make those calculations, various mental arithmetics burrowed their way into our brains. Turns out we are boffins when it comes to certain strains of maths; the kinds of equations that relate directly to the mysteries of the Midult universe.
Hangover maths: The little getting-ready sharpener must be included in the evening’s full mathematical reckoning, as it may be the drink that tips the equation into something non-computable. The booze formula can only hold true if the number of units is equal to the number of waters, and if the units are crossbred then there is likely to be extreme malfunction. If cigarettes are introduced, the figures will not add up.
Heartbreak maths: This operates on a system of constantly shifting risk analysis. For the mathematician mid-heartbreak, the calculation revolves around the scientific probability of actual survival. Once recovery is established as a viable option, the advanced numerist may be able to work towards an anti-bitterness formula. The single mathematician, embarking on an untested unknown, may find their subconscious performing an is-this-going-to-be-another-f***ing-disaster computation.
Smartphone maths: Remember a time before smartphones, when your battery would last three days? When you only panicked at six per cent? Nowadays, it must not be less than 92 per cent charged upon leaving the house in the morning, and all windows must be closed except for the one in use. If you are out all day, there will be NO listening to music or podcasts. (Are you insane? That takes us to 66 per cent in seven minutes.) And easy on the Insta-scrolls. Ration yourself to one per hour.
Sleep maths: You’re out to dinner. You have quietly calculated that, if it’s 9.30pm now and you’re on the main course, you should be away by 10.30, which means home by 11, bed by 11.20 and lights off at 11.30 (as long as you don’t decide to read the entire Internet before you attempt to drift off). You’ll make it through to 6.30am, and that’s OK.
Death maths: The numbers are rarely resolved, but constantly recalibrated according to aches, pains, missed smear tests, headaches, moles, sick friends, scaremongering headlines, cigarettes and birthdays. ‘More or less than halfway through?’ becomes the question as we throw our minds towards the big balance sheet in the sky. Cancer x stroke = p/karma.
Caffeine maths: This is an exact science aiming to hit the perfect equilibrium between corpse and fiend. The baseline must be a comprehensive understanding of the subject’s individual reaction to coffee at all times of the day – with and without additional sustenance.
Sam Taylor-Johnson, the Fifty Shades of Grey director can tackle art, film and husband Aaron Taylor-Johnson
Agencies
