The Well

Birthdays are tricky things. 

Herself has not aged happily.  She tolerated this birthday, though 43 appears as though it will be a slightly more difficult year than 42 was.  She did her best to maintain a good sense of humor, to be grateful for all that she has, to recognize that all things considered, she's faring fairly well for her age.  She tried to pamper herself a bit, as one is expected to do at birthday-time:  a haircut, a tiny bit of shopping.  She thoroughly enjoyed spending time with her Beloved and her cherished friend that morning, and challenged herself that afternoon by making a cake from scratch. Yet she knew that despite her efforts, she was at the periphery of an unhappy place. 

It was a few casual words, though, that pushed Herself over the edge into the Well:  "You're officially middle-aged now."

Why was this sentence the tipping point?  Perhaps because it's quite true.  She is halfway done, at the least.  

This is a hard place to be.  She suddenly has become more aware of those dreams deferred and set aside, and knows that she must accept that certain goals will never, in fact, come to pass.  She worries significantly about the economy, about under-employment, about balancing the wants and desires of the family against a shrinking income. She is far more sorrowful than she thought she would be when she acknowledges that her reproductive years are behind her, and she regrets not enjoying the years when her offspring were tiny more.  She is concerned about protecting them from the sometimes-harsh glare of the Real World, about trying to ensure they learn all the lessons they need and make no life-altering mistakes.  So many small worries.  They have reached a critical mass, and spontaneously formed the Well in which she now sits.

She will find her way out of the Well eventually.  She always does.  In the meanwhile, though, if you have a moment to quietly keep her company in the Well, she would be grateful.