I don’t know what it was that hit me the hardest – the reality of being 45 or the reality that I was now separated and looking at a closet full of clothes, which surely needed to be ‘sensory’ improved for my newly found rule of – single at 45 meant I must exude knock out sex appeal at all times. I looked at my self in the mirror, and instantly wanted blonde highlights to hide greying hair-my dark hair would not suffice. I was determined to be my own version of Funky Cold Medina.
The entry most certainly had a few lessons. The most important one being that all women who bring cars to the garage must first crawl under the car to see if there is such a thing as a tube leading to the back windshield for wiper fluid. Now this may seem kind of out there, but if you’ve ever gone to a garage with no ring on your finger asking them to fix this or that, you find out very quickly that your car, all be it only a few years old and with less kilometer’s than grandma’s clothesline was now a complete mess and in need of an overall from top to bottom. The mechanic, however, was kind of handsome, and the uniform – we will call it this – gave me a few things to imagine as he handed me a worn out windshield wiper rubber foam thing. To this day, I know it did not look like this when I brought the car in for an oil change.
I think, however, having a furniture assembler claim a mattress had to be assembled and attempting to charge me for it, topped this better than any cherry on an ice cream sundae. I proclaimed quite profusely that he surely must have been plucking geese in the backroom because I didn’t understand how a mattress was going to be put together in my living room upon arrival to my home.
Then the painting people, oh you fine folk who attempted to overcharge me yet again. I love painter peoples, got nothing but love for you with a side order of, “Do I have sucker written on my face? I mean seriously were you taking the colors from the spectrum of the rainbow, how did you come up with those prices?” At 45 I painted my first room, it was pretty, it was done well. My discovery that one needed to tape the edges of the ceiling happened after the second coat was applied, but alas it was finished.
Was that the end? Oh surely not, a plumber who charged me $100 dollars to twist a knob, an extra charge here and there, and I was brought to the realization of, “Girl you better get this in check, this is one money grubbing, pull at the 45 year old skirt pocket world.”
But, in the humor were painful moments of realization. When a life insurance company wanted to make me a costumer. I was canceling insurance on a house that I spent almost 20 years in with my X husband to be. It caught me by surprise, no one wanted to let me mourn or heal because nowadays divorce was seen as no big deal. I remembered moments of pain, I remembered hoping it would stop filling my chest with inconsolable doubt. I remember crying, oh my what a lot of crying. Niagara Falls seems to be a fitting image, but the whole time telling everyone, ‘I am all good, just fine, got it all under control.’
Then there was the kayak, the blue kayak with my plastic paddle. It was in this kayak traveling around the lake next to my home where I found the courage to say, “I am 45 and I am now single. I forgive myself for failing. I forgive myself for not paying closer attention to the cost of gas and home repairs. I forgive myself for this transition.” I entered single life here.
The wind, the air, the birds and the sound of the paddle took me away from the worry of everything not working out. It took me away from thinking of having to shed a few pounds because everyone and their uncle told me that if I didn’t have sex and a man right away, I’d be doomed to a life of cats. I came to love me more than any of the negative surrounding my entry. But most of all, I became one with a powerful energy in our lives which only nature can provide. In those quiet mornings, I met me again. I met the hope of life and the energy of living. I spoke to the God I believed in, the one who loved all. I was alive again.
An aside – The next time I get under a car it would be more advisable to make sure it is turned off. Entry into my new life at 45 was a journey I won’t forget, but it surely has improved my wardrobe.
Photo Credit
Photo By Melinda Cochrane – All Rights Reserved
Thank you for your wonderful comment, and I agree, it does get easier.
How apropos of what many of us feel being ‘a certain age’ and single. I’m convinced it gets easier as it goes along, but I have often wondered if people in the car service industry often think I have ‘sucker’ written on my forehead. Of course, being single means you can accept that invitation to a scotch tasting right after work–even before you’ve had dinner.