Lately, I have resurfaced. I am no longer being a stranger, I started blogging again, I started tweeting again, and I’m trying to keep up to date with the posts of my all fave bloggy friends (haven’t quite succeed yet, you are all so prolific, but I’m working on it!).
I’m no longer in hiding, no longer depressed, no longer feeling sorry for myself while simultaneously feeling guilty for feeling sorry for myself while others in my position would consider themselves lucky.
When I read about things happening in NYC, it no longer makes me sad. Sure, sometimes I wish I was there, but I no longer feel like I am missing out on the best things I could be experiencing, like my life is “less than” because of me being here instead of there. I no longer feel like I got relegated from the center of the universe to a remote corner of its outer frontier.
In fact, I may go as far as saying that I feel quite happy. Today I feel the happiness that comes from simple things: exchanging friendly banter and snarky comments with a new friend, experiencing excitement at the discovery of a new local treasure, having a chat while sitting on the tram. The happiness that comes from things that are so plain, so everyday, that we take them for granted. But those same things are what helps you create a life, a life where you feel comfortable, not constantly awkward and out of place; a life where you feel you can be yourself, and not everyone has to like you, and that’s ok; a life where you are not alone, not lonely, not an island, not lost in yourself.
It’s amazing how much we take for granted. How everyone craves the flashy stuff, without realizing that the simple things are really the best part. Someone to share a laugh, a day, a passion with. Someplace to go back and gather your thoughts, knowing you can leave and it will still be there when you come back. Knowing you have a place in the world, a role, even if you don’t know what it is quite yet. And knowing that you can, you will, find a way to follow your bliss without leaving anyone behind and without being left behind.
Also, the luxury to say things like this, and know that not everyone will understand, but your friends will listen anyway. So thank you. For sticking with me during the foggy times, when my sky was nothing but gray. There is snow on the ground outside, but in here? Things are looking up.
I think I’m having a mid-life crisis a few years ahead of time.
Not the kind where I’d die my hair platinum blond, get a tramp stamp and start wearing too-short skirts and too-revealing tops, and flirting with younger men. Though if I ever was going to get a tramp stamp, I have to say, it wouldn’t be a butterfly, even though they are pretty, and the whole wings=freedom metaphor and stuff.
Ah, this reminds me of that episode of How I Met Your Mother where Ted gets drunk and he actually does get a butterfly tattooed on his lower back. It just goes to show, that alcohol is not really your friend, especially when consumed in excess, as anyone who has ever had a serious hangover will (or at least should) tell you.
Nah – me, I’d probably do a fairy. Like one inspired by an Amy Brown drawing. Fairies have the whole butterfly thing going, with the wings and the prettiness, but they are also kind of mischievous and fun. I’m guessing, it’s not like I know any of them personally. I’ll admit that reading books from Laurell K. Hamilton‘s Meredith Gentry series is one of my guilty pleasures, but I don’t think that counts.
Anyway, back to me, and my midlife crisis. (Although come to think of it, it’s not like we’ve been talking about anyone else.)
I think the kind of mid-life crisis where people go through these crazy metamorphoses at least provides some degree of hilarity, especially for those who have the good sense to walk around with a camera at all times, which means you have plenty of chances to catch the mid-lifer in situations where he/she is making a complete ass of him/herself, hence providing good anecdotes for future embarrassment and possibly some degree of blackmail (“You do the dishes or I am taking out that photo of you when you had just gotten back from getting a tongue piercing the day after your 40th birthday!“) Ah, yes, good times.
Then there is the kind where the once somewhat intelligent adult simply loses his marbles a tad and gets this foggy, sort of lost expression, like he really is looking for those lost marbles. The foggy expression can be masked somewhat, but only for so long. In my experience, it helps if you can do a good smoky eye.
Then there is the lost sense of direction, which can definitely affect the ability to avoid getting lost while driving, but mostly has to do with the willingness and motivation to get stuff done. Everything has a reason for getting done, but all of a sudden it seems pointless. Or boring. Like household chores. ’cause normally I am such the domestic goddess, you know. Sure.
And then there is the moment when you start reaching for self-help books, particularly ones that promise to help you get your life in order, so in the blink of an eye you’ll be 20 pounds lighter, have a sparkly house, a fulfilling sex life, a great job, and whatever else your heart desires. When you browse through Amazon, you will have a few titles literally jump out at you, like One year to an organized life: from your closet to your finances, the week-by-week guide to getting completely organized for good (wow, sign me up – ’cause really, isn’t happiness just an organized closet?) or This year I will…: How to finally change a habit, keep a resolution, or make a dream come true (as a seasoned procrastinator, I could use some of that). And then you have the one written by the guy who traveled the world looking for the happiest place. Now, how didn’t I think of that? It sounds like just my cup of tea. Though come to think of it, would I settle in the happiest place I find? Hmmm… I don’t think so. Sometimes you just want to be grumpy and being surrounded by happy happy people all the time would be kind of annoying. Kind of like living at DisneyWorld. Like a full-time citizen of The Magic Kingdom. No thanks, I like that stuff in small doses.
Even SnowWhite seems to agree:
So the search continues. But I found it kind of funny that the guy “wasn’t too fond of the Swiss, either, uncomfortable with their quiet satisfaction, tinged with just a trace of smugness.” I know snorting isn’t ladylike, but please don’t mind if I do.
I used to get these little crises almost every year on my birthday. You know, the under-accomplishment attacks, but without the foggy-eyed expression. Just the frantic listing of all the stuff I didn’t get done during the past year, and OMG I absolutely must get it done before another year is over, dammit. Now it’s just lingering, annoying and unwanted. Leave already, feeling of hopelessness and inadequateness (is that even a word? midlife crises provide great fodder to coin neologisms), and let me return to my glass half full state of being.
Which leaves me to decide how to tackle the beast. Read the new, virtually unopened copy of The Happiness Project that’s quietly (but suggestively) sitting on my desk as I type? Nudging me by ignoring me? (Which is when you see how much I lost my marbles, since I have to remind myself books are not, in fact, people and when they just sit there it’s because they are inanimate objects, not because they are ignoring me.)
Or rather, give Gwen Bell‘s tips a try and try to get my sh*t together by getting myself inspired? ‘Cause I just know that’s it. I have to find my own hook. ’cause when you feel like you are having an allergic reaction to the Universe and you can’t possibly find anything remotely awesome about your current life, there’s still hope. And chocolate. And I guess until I find the first, there’s plenty of the second to go around here. I do live in the Land of Lindt afterall.
My name is Elisa. I'm hooked on travel, fashion, photography, good food and beautiful things.
I'm a long-time expat, currently living in Zurich, Switzerland with my husband and our two little globetrotters, our daughters Sarah and Stella.
