Let me set the scene. I turned 44 last year—an age that feels like you’re finally getting the hang of life but also questioning why your knees sound like Rice Krispies when you get out of bed.
Most people talk about midlife crises like they’re some cautionary tale—quitting your job to “find yourself,” buying a motorcycle you don’t know how to ride, or running off to Bali with someone named Chad who sells crystals at farmer’s markets.
Mine? Well, mine came wrapped in paw prints, a love of country music, and a Volkswagen Jetta in “soccer mom but make it sporty” blue.
Tattoo You
Yes. I got a tattoo of my dog. On my body. Forever.
Is it tasteful? I think so.
Is it majestic? Absolutely.
Is it on my forearm where I can stare lovingly at it every day like a proud pet mom who has zero regrets and possibly some attachment issues? You betcha.
Sports Car Dreams (Jetta Realities)
So here’s the thing. I bought a sports car.
Well, kind of. It’s a Jetta. A Volkswagen Jetta. In bright blue.
It’s sporty in the same way I’m sporty—by which I mean I own activewear and sometimes take the stairs. But when I hit the gas on that bad boy, windows down, dog in the backseat, Shania Twain on the stereo? I’m basically living out a Fast & the Furry-ous fantasy.
Noel (my husband, going on 17 years of tolerating me) said, “It’s cute!” which is married code for “You won’t make me drive it, will you?” Correct. I will not.
Dancing Queen (Of the Senior Center)
Because nothing says reinventing yourself quite like line dancing lessons on a Tuesday night with Cathy, who can boot-scoot me under the table.
Line dancing has been surprisingly therapeutic. It’s part cardio, part therapy, part “why does my hip hurt now?” Every class ends with me sweating, smiling, and questioning if I’ve accidentally joined a cult. A very friendly, rhinestone-heavy cult.
A Heart for Animals (And Mild Chaos)
In my quest to find purpose (or maybe just somewhere to wear my new dog-print hoodie), I started volunteering at the Cochrane & Area Humane Society.
Let me tell you: if you think your house is chaotic, try wrangling 12 puppies who all want to chew your shoelaces and then lick your soul into submission. It’s the best kind of madness. I leave every shift covered in fur, emotionally fulfilled, and desperately trying not to bring home a 14th rescue animal.
Conclusion
So yes, I’m 44. Yes, I’m covered in dog hair, driving a Jetta that thinks it’s a Porsche, dancing in boots I can’t walk in, and finding joy in volunteering.
But I’m also living. Loudly. Weirdly. Happily.
Midlife crisis? Maybe.
Midlife renaissance? Definitely.
And as long as Noel keeps trimming beards at Denim & Smith, our 8-year-old keeps asking existential questions like “Why can’t I see my eyes?”, and the dog keeps being the real MVP of this household—I think I’m gonna be just fine.
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