Burn in hell, midlife crisis!

Before we get into today’s very big drama, a fun fact: sometimes we sit together over beer (Lina and me) and cigarettes (Lina) and analyze the number of clicks on my texts.

That’s exactly what we did a few days ago and we laughed a lot.

Here’s the thing, you perverts*: you click like crazy on anything that says “sex” anywhere. I understand that very well. No latest news so far. It’s much funnier which of my texts you clicked the worst on.

Finished?

Well, it was the text about the night Sandro and I were NOT fucking anymore. You can find it here if you don’t want to click it again:

So fun, we talked about it and even more fun, we had something to laugh about. I don’t find it funny now. What exactly I can’t say. I’ve got everything. I have a very good friend, with many more good qualities than bad ones. I am healthy. have a nice job I have enough stuff to live the way I enjoy.

I also have absolute freedom to do exactly what I want to do every day. If I want to travel to Puerto Rico on Tuesday, I can. If I want to immigrate to Hawaii on Friday, I can. Suff-SMS-Sandro is so enthusiastic, I get to know him all over the world.

So what more do I want?

This is exactly where the Schafseckel is buried.

I. WHITE. IT. NOT.

But I know I’m a little bored. That I crave adventures (not sexual ones, yes, yes, a little). I also wonder what I’m actually doing that makes sense. And what actually makes sense? Do I have to read in nursing homes? makeup for kids? Raising hedgehogs with a bottle in a hedgehog shelter? Or would you rather follow a course in silk painting?

DON’T KNOW!

Nothing kicks me. Besides, I’m lazy. And my knee hurts. And the back. And it pinches the hips. My cycle is pure anarchy. Is menopause coming?

FUCK. PLEASE NOT YET.

In my mind I’m 22.

Someone who understands me very well is Cleo, my one of the two best friends. Cleo is just single again. The lucky one, I think sometimes, and then I remember being single isn’t just great.

Meanwhile, she thinks I should shut up with a man who knows me so well, loves me and lets me live.

I admit Cleo has a lot more reason to be worthless. The last man delivered her the stars from the sky via WhatsApp on Friday, only to reveal to her on Saturday that it was about something serious “but not quite enough”.

Cleo experiences this for the third time in a row. Typical Zurich syndrome. Been there, done that, hated that.

However, for Cleo, everything is somehow twice as corrosive. Cleo really wants to give birth to little sweet Cleos. Cleo is now 36 and terrified she won’t date anyone anymore. Or meet someone and not get pregnant because of age.

We recently sat at her kitchen table. She has considered alternatives, she says. She could sail the sea. Four months. Only. Never in life does it. Cleo can barely breaststroke, let alone hoist a sail.

But I will. I am a good BFF.

She also thought about doing something new professionally. Not that Cleo has ever really done anything other than being a daughter in the first place, but again: I’m in.

She could become a primary school teacher. Or youth worker. Social worker. Fitness instructor. It can also be cool to have your own cafe. Or an online store where they sell god knows what. Baby Finkli or something.

Now Cleo has to cry torrents. And because I am who I am and therefore almost always have to cry when someone cries, it also comes out with me.

So we’re sitting there now, feeling incredibly sorry for ourselves, now also noticing that our little feet are sagging and our breasts are already over their best. We’re also pretty sure we’re on the brink of hot flashes/menopause and we’re missing out on a huge amount if we don’t do something really useful by tomorrow at the latest.

The next day I feel much better. I see my life as a series of privileges. I am also a friend with my naked reflection in the mirror: feet and breasts, everything is great.

I may be one of the happiest women in town. It is also possible that these are hormone fluctuations that herald the transition.

Hello Mindfuck.

I’m writing Cleo. I want to know how she is.

“Great,” she immediately writes. The man who recently didn’t love her enough for anything good, suddenly can’t imagine life without Cleo and little Cleos. what I understand

Cleo is now over the moon. And after a while I’m very happy again that I don’t have to go through that messy dating shit anymore.

Speaking of midlife crisis: Sandro has it now too. He actually bought a moped, which he is now secretly styling in the basement and feeling like 16. Sometimes I go up to him, we smoke weed and kiss.

Life is Beautiful.

You can print this out and hang it on your fridge.

LG, Emma.

* I mean that with LOTS of love!