Under the Clock

My therapist once told me midlife crisis is underrated. Only after my year of living dangerously, I understood what she meant by this. I have always taken the path of least resistance, change and risk was not something I enjoyed in life. But my experience over the last couple of years, the suffering, the changes forced upon me, all led to the most dramatic time of self-realization I’ve ever experienced.

Of course, divorce is an all too familiar catalyst in this story. I married at 20, sure that it was forever. We had started out so in love, struggling to survive and life was very literally a beach. We couldn’t afford the southern California lifestyle, but it cost nothing to ride our bikes to Huntington Beach where we spent endless summers taunting the shore break at Lifeguard Tower #7. We had nothing but each other until our son came along 3 years later. I didn’t set out to break his heart. Frankly, it would have been easier to stay. At times I think I hurt more for him than for me. Maybe I still do. I woke up every morning during that last year of our marriage feeling as if something was pulling me away. Then it started to feel like pieces of me were already gone, like dandelion fragments blowing into the wind. I had to go searching for them, putting the pieces of me back where they belonged before I disintegrated. I waited, miserable and angry, for my son to graduate from high school so that I might risk the wrath of God, my husband, my son, our friends. After 20 years, I left my marriage and belief in forever smoldering on the doorstep of my California dream home. Only through faith in the fact that God, and my son, would forgive me could I summon up the courage. These were the darkest years of my life.

I asked myself, would I grow old alone by my own doing? Would my son turn away from me in support of his father, always the victim, leaving me truly broken-hearted? Could I withstand the people we knew judging me, the heartless woman that broke up the façade of a happy family? And while the ink had already dried on the final papers, I still fostered the delusion that I somehow had power over my ex-husband’s well-being. It took many months for me to finally relinquish that illusion into the pool of tears that kept recurring in my quiet moments.

I have played it safe all my life. My career, starting as a secretary and maneuvering my way to a vice president position over 15 years with the same company, should have been satisfying. I had a position and status many people envied, and it was fun and exciting for years. But as the pressure cooker built over time, I realized the boys above me on the ladder were dropping like flies. Prostrate cancer, colon cancer, then, my God, brain cancer. Was that the reward I was pursuing? Sure, they had the top of the line luxury sedans, beautiful wives that seemed to never age, luxury vacations rubbing elbows with the elite. It suddenly dawned on me the perks would be difficult to enjoy if you were too ill or dead.

I took my first career risk ever, with the safety net of a long-term consulting retainer, collected my last big bonus check and joined the ranks of the “self-employed”. No one could believe I would actually leave such a pristine perch, and I was surprised by the reaction of my esteemed colleagues, some of which actually fostered rumors of me having been fired. It’s enlightening to experience the transition from being an extension of a company’s logo to standing on your own reputation. My true allies in building my new business came from the least expected relationships, and the ones I thought would be my cheerleaders took to buttering up my replacements (yes, they hired several) like a Thanksgiving turkey.

After making the leap from corporate executive to lone ranger, the life I thought I could not have in my marriage or career blossomed. I was blessed with the opportunity to take a wonderful trip to Italy with my son after his high-school graduation, and return to Paris with my best friend to celebrate our 40th birthdays together. Consulting afforded me the time and energy to go back to college, 20 years later, enrolling in the classes I always wanted to take the first time in creative writing and photography.

I passed a poster on my way to class one day that screamed at me “Study Abroad in Salamanca”. Images of renaissance plazas, bell towers, smiling faces sitting at sidewalk cafes floated off the wall. My heart leaped and shouted, “yes! Go! what’s stopping you?” Then my practical voice chimed in: “a 40 year old exchange student? Get a grip!” I had always dreamed of traveling to Spain for a study program in my native tongue. Spanish had always eluded me, although it was my first language. Born in Nicaragua I was whisked away to America at 3. My mother was intent on providing me with a better life and an education, insisting on only speaking English in the home. Ironically, my best subject ending up being English. Despite taking Spanish in high school and college, I was 100% “gringo”, born in the third world, but raised American.

A few weeks later, I found myself sitting outside of the circle in an orientation meeting with a group of teens and their parents. They all looked at me quizzically as I asked questions about housing, meals, and excursions. I’m sure they were wondering when my kid was going to show up. I found out later the “kids” parents had dubbed me “the mysterious lady in red” for my bright, red trench coat I’d wear to the meetings. The Spanish Department head who’d organized the study program for 14 years was a vivacious Chilean born woman. She won my admiration after upstaging me in her fur lined wrap and gloves. I thought she’d scare away the lot with tales of all night discos, siestas midday to catch up on sleep, and minimal effort hitting the books.

“You can study Spanish in a classroom and in books here,” she said. “You are going to Spain to learn from the Spaniards of their culture, their language. Your classroom is the tapas bar, the disco, the café”.

That’s all I needed to hear. The price of admission, 3 months of room, board and classes equated to a week in Paris or a month paying rent and living the Southern California lifestyle. I actually justified my trip, at a time when work was running thin, with the fact that 3 months in Spain would actually save me money.

After paying my deposit and submitting my application, the fear factor took hold. Am I crazy? I should be out drumming up business. I’d socked away a year’s living expenses over the time I was a consultant, so I could afford to take off three months. But, what was I going to tell my clients? What if I came back and my business had dried up? Sometimes my inner voice resembled the sound of a tea kettle going off at full boil.

Had it not been for the support and encouragement of my life coach, friends, family and God’s answers to my prayers, I would never have had the courage to go. The fulfillment and empowerment I feel today as a result of my voyage of self-discovery and adventure would not exist. And instead of typing my memoir at the moment, I’d probably be typing away at a report or proposal.

The need to share this story is at the very core of my being. It wakes me up in the morning like an alarm clock. It sidles up to me in my bed at night. I know I have to get it out, not just to satisfy my craving to fulfill one more lifelong dream of being a published writer, but in hopes of sparking someone out there who may be wondering, waiting to take that leap. Know that dreams can come true beyond anything you feel you can imagine or deserve. Just be careful what you wish for…..