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Rebel Jones

Life On The Rocks

If turning 40 was a vegetable, I think it would probably be cabbage. 

 

It has that distinguishably bitter taste that makes you question all of your life choices. And as the previous 36 years flash before your eyes, (because no one really remembers much before their 4th birthday) you get a whiff of midlife crisis. 

 

Stereotypically for men, it’s about reliving their childhood dreams - a red sports car and custom-built he-shed down the garden. They crave manliness, validation, and the body they had in their 20s.

 

But for women, it’s different. The emotional racket thrown around their head is unexpected. And the pangs of ‘My life is over’ bruise deeply. 

 

I am that 40-year-old woman. I am Rebel Jones. And my life is on the rocks. 

 

I no longer know what day it is, or why mismatching socks bother me so much. The abandonment of almost empty coffee cups is the exact reason why I have so many cups. And I often change my name to Mrs Papadopoulos, just to stop my kids from incessantly calling out ‘Mum!'

As I look down to the waves below (metaphorically of course), I wonder… Is this it? Is this everything I’m meant to do with my life? 

 

I’m 40, with an almost equal amount of grey hair to tattoos (FYI I have a lot of ink). And a restless desire to write more than 50 shades of Australian Shepherd. 

 

My workspace is littered with hair grips and loose change from I don’t know where.

 

There are printed articles and handwritten notes, each stained with an unhealthy amount of marker pen, highlighting my worldly mistakes (which almost always occur when listening to a small child before instinctively typing the words of said, small child).

 

And a thumbs-up cable holder that tragically refuses to stick to my desk and do its one… simple… job.

 

Is this my lot? My contribution to society (aside from the small people I propelled into this world), and the occasional batch of homemade cupcakes.

 

Well, that’s pants. 

 

But if these are my pants, I shall wear them with greatness. And I shall share my pants. And encourage others to share their pants too… (OK that sounded considerably less smutty in my head. But we’re going with it regardless!)

 

Sure, my sanity may be one cluttered sock drawer away from giving up. But for reasons with less substance than a vegan burger,  I’ve decided to share the highs, the lows, and the journey that drove me to this little piece of the internet. 

I am Rebel Jones.
And this is my life on the rocks.

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