I don’t do well with birthdays that end in ZERO or FIVE.

And unfortunately, I’ve got a big old FIVE riding my ass.

In a matter of days I’ll be forty-five, and the way I see it – it’s all downhill from there.

After all, I’ll be halfway to fifty.

Halfway done with Fortytales.com.

Halfway to death.

And so, the real Halftime Show begins, only without an elaborate musical extravaganza sponsored by Pepsi.

They say that 45 is the new 35. However, I feel like I’ve always aged in dog years, so technically, 45 for me is actually more like 80.

Wherever I am on the age spectrum, I think it’s official – I’m midlife. Yet, I’m not sure if I’ve surpassed crisis-mode, I’m currently in it, or if it’s still to come. Good god, I hope that’s not the case.

Whenever a milestone, (or half-milestone), birthday rolls around, I always tend to evaluate where I’m at in life, and of course, dwell on what I haven’t accomplished in the last five years.

  • Did I get engaged or married? Nope.
  • Did I become a mother? Negative.
  • Did I become a successful author? Hell no.
  • Did I lose a significant amount of weight? Quite the contrary.
  • Did I become independently wealthy? I wish.
  • Did I travel abroad? Does LA count?

Regarding what I did accomplish, a nervous breakdown and an introduction to anti-depressants float right to the top of the list. It’s safe to say my earlier question about a midlife crisis has been answered – I think I’m stuck in the middle of one…and holding.

The definition of a midlife crisis:

An emotional crisis of identity and self-confidence that can occur in early middle age.

Yep, that sounds about right.

Out of curiosity, I Googled “midlife crisis symptoms for women” and found the following results:

  • Change in eating habits.
  • Change in sleeping habits, fatigue.
  • Feelings of pessimism or hopelessness.
  • Restlessness, anxiety or irritability.
  • Feeling of guilt, helplessness or worthlessness.
  • Loss of interest in activities once enjoyed.

Holy crap! Not only am I experiencing a midlife crisis, I’m the poster child! The only things missing from that list are unwanted body hair and excessive wine and chocolate consumption.

In trying to find a way to describe what midlife feels like, the best comparison I can make is to high school. Yes, high school! And I HATED high school. I was an awkward, overweight, self-conscious, insecure, lonely teenager, riddled with anxiety, even though I didn’t know it at the time.

I wasn’t popular in high school. I wasn’t necessarily unpopular either. I was just there, somewhere in the background, with a forgettable face, a few extra pounds and a hard to pronounce last name.

How is it that now, nearly 27 years after high school, I feel like this again?

I thought my forties were supposed to bring wisdom, confidence and the ability to not give a bleep. If that’s the case, why do I still find myself caring way too much about what other people think of me? And why is it that, once again, I find myself feeling awkward, overweight, self-conscious, insecure, lonely, and riddled with anxiety? On a positive note, at least nowadays, I’m completely aware of my anxiety.

Hello, Zoloft.

The other day, I was at a business luncheon, which can be equated to that of a high school dance. There were the “popular kids” and the “unpopular kids”, each designated to a side of the extra large hotel ballroom. I was at a table with the audio/visual guy, so that pretty much sums up where I stand these days.

At this event, the women were comparing outfits and carpool stories, while the men boasted about…well, themselves. 

So really, nothing has changed since high school.

I was one of three women at our table. I was wearing an inexpensive dress from Target that doubles as a car cover, while the other ladies were dressed to the nines. While I should have been listening to the state of our city, instead, I found myself focused on the fact that I was the only woman at our table who ate a piece of bread AND had dessert. Bread and dessert, people! And, to make matters worse, I added BUTTER to the bread! Fat, and gluten and carbs…oh my! 

I’m a monster!

Me at the recent State of the City luncheon.

The other two women just sat there, not tempted at all, dabbing designer gloss on their lips as I shoveled cheesecake in my mouth like a pig in a trough. And sadly, this rich treat did not aid with the digestion of the rubber chicken and salmon-like duet served for lunch. But…I digress. 

I’ve got to wonder, were these women judging me for what I ate and how I looked? I will never know. But either way, I was left to feel guilty and embarrassed for my actions. What was I thinking? Gluten, carbs, and a dress that cost $19.99 at Target!

Don’t look at me!

This wasn’t the only time I felt like I was back in high school. A couple of weeks ago, I was having a conversation with some co-workers and someone asked the question, “Who can survive on a single salary in California?”

Since I have one income, and am somehow surviving, I raised my hand. To this, the co-worker who asked the question scoffed and said, “Well, you don’t have any dependents, Tracy.”

I don’t know why, but at that moment, I felt like I had been sucker-punched in the gut. The comment just kept ringing in my ears. You don’t have any dependents, Tracy.  Meaning, no one depends on you.

Meaning, you don’t count.

Even though she didn’t say it out loud, I know she was referring to the fact that I am unmarried and childless.

Just like at the luncheon, I felt like an outsider. A single, childless, carb-eating, Target-wearing outsider. Different from the rest of the “kids” with a life that doesn’t really have anything to show for it, at least per the standards of society.

And what are society’s standards these days? Honestly, I have no idea. There are so many mixed messages out there, I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to want or who I’m supposed to be.

I’m supposed to be proud and comfortable with how I look…as long as I have a 22-inch waist, abs of steel and perfect teeth.

I’m not supposed to need a man to rescue me…as long as I’m married by 30.

READERS NOTE: In the days of the #metoo movement, I think I’m actually supposed to hate men right now. I can’t keep it straight.

I’m supposed to be original and think independently…as long as I believe in what the majority of everyone else believes.

I’m supposed to empower and support other women…as long I also put them down to make myself look better.

I’m not supposed to need a child to be happy…as long as I realize my life will have no real purpose.

And so, that begs the question…

What’s the point?!?!

When I was younger, I used to love the show Entertainment Tonight. I was obsessed with celebrities and wanted to be just like them…as well as look like them and marry the hot ones. After all, they were the “cool kids” and there was nothing more I wanted to be.

The host of ET at that time was the age-defying Mary Hart. I remember there was a story about a man who had a seizure every time he heard her voice on his TV, which I thought was pretty funny back then. I also thought it wasn’t true. How could that even be possible?

Fast-forward to now, and every time I put on an entertainment magazine show, the voices of all the wannabe-celebrity hosts shake me to my core…and not in a good way. When I hear their screeching vocals, which I can only compare to that of a cat in heat, a seizure overtakes my body and fills me with rage and annoyance, automatically making me reach for my remote and hit the MUTE button. The sounds of their voices are like fingernails on a chalkboard. I find it hard to watch these shows because it’s just a bunch of phonies who want so much to be friends with the cool kids.

Again, just like high school.

I always thought once I grew up, life would get easier. Once I graduated from high school, all my insecurities would disappear.

Boy was I wrong.

As I continue to age, life appears to be even more of a popularity contest, only these days, with social media, reality TV and the power of influencers, it’s a billion times worse.

I feel like I’m constantly being reminded of who I should be, what I should have, and how I should act. And, according to my Instagram and Facebook feeds, I’m getting it all wrong.

It being life, of course.

When do I finally graduate high school and get admitted to the University of Self-Acceptance?

When do I willingly UNFOLLOW the hate and realize, I am one of the cool kids…always have been? (Well, maybe not so much during my “perm” years…looking like a poodle is NOT cool by anyone’s standards. That’s just a fact.)

Although, this little guy looks pretty darn cool to me.

When will I finally feel comfortable in my own skin? If not at 45, WHEN???

My biggest fear is that I will never fully be content with myself. I’m also afraid that my life is never going to get any better than it is now. Both of these things scare the living crap out of me, just like a creepy-ass clown at a birthday party.

To be fair, I DO have a very blessed life, surrounded by a caring family, good friends and two gigantic fur babies who mean the world to me.

I have a nice home and longstanding job. I’m talented, intelligent, and have a decent sense of humor. I also try my best to be kind and generous, and I feel my heart is in the right place, at least, most of the time.

When I look at things this way, I feel bad for wanting more. But, if I stopped wanting more now – at halftime – what do I do with the years I have left? Lie in bed and watch Dateline? Been there and done that.

Typical night at Casa de Dietlein.

Look, I don’t have any desire to be famous or popular or even supermodel skinny. Well, full disclosure, I do have the desire to sit in my jeans without having to unbutton them after I eat lunch.

Again…I digress.

What I do want is to be content. I want to be content in and with my life without having to try so hard and worry so much.

I want to measure my successes by accomplishing the things I want to achieve – the things that are most important to me. I want to stop focusing on the things that everyone else thinks are mandatory for me to be happy because some fairy tale dictated it to us when we were young.

And that’s what life comes down to. I’ve spent my whole life, (thus far), waiting for the fairy tale. Believing in the fairy tale. Counting down the seconds to my happily ever after. And it never happened. Have I been wasting my time?

And yet…

  • Do I have love in my life? Yep.
  • Do I have people who believe in me? Uh-huh.
  • Do I still have dreams I want to come true? Affirmative.
  • Do I have beauty inside and out? I’ll let you be the judge.
  • Do I have furry friends who lift me up when I’m down? Yes…they also barf on my bed.
  • Do I have a fairy godmother? Does VISA, MasterCard and my therapist count?
  • Do I still have hope in life? Most Definitely.

Maybe I have achieved some of the fairy tale, but why do I still feel incomplete? Why do I constantly feel like I’m missing out? Why do I still feel like the outsider I was in high school? Will that ever go away? Will I ever be able to move on?

So here I stand, at a turning point, not quite sure of which road I should go down next. I feel like I’ve been on the same road for quite sometime, and I’m a bit exhausted from the drive. What would happen if I went down a different path? Would anything really change?

When it’s all said and done, the person who is really holding me back is me. I know that I am capable of loving others, but will I ever truly be capable of loving myself? It seems like it should be easier than it is. However, like everything else, it takes practice. And practice makes perfect. Only, I’m trying not to be perfect these days, so I need to practice that too. More mixed messages! 🙁

Let’s face it, ultimately, life is short. And I know I shouldn’t be wasting precious time with my birthday blues. In the interim, life simply goes on and it will continue to be what I make of it, and nobody else.

The fairy tale may have expired for me, but the Forty Tale is still within reach…at least for the next five years. And when those five years are up? Well, only time will tell. However, it’s probably wise not to jump ahead. Like any good story, the middle is not only the longest part, but often times the best.

And hopefully…the best IS yet to come.

And she lived hopefully ever after.