The New Normal


It doesn’t matter what it is – someone bashed the dollhouse.  The picket fence looking a bit shabby now, the pretty maids all in a row along a seashell pathway, got lost.

The new normal is not limited to any age, but it’s particularly tricky to navigate when the Stilettoes have made room for the kitty heels and you are the first one to leave the party.  It sucks. Before I gag at the latest meme or cliché about wine o’clock or purple hats I want to tell you, I ain’t buying it.  I’m just struggling with the concept of the New Normal in Silver Street.

For some of us it may mean learning to live alone because the ‘Grey Divorce’ became more popular than the fifty shades of it, or navigating our way around what’s up and Skyping to children who have decided that living a zillion miles away from our kitchen is cool.  Some of us are having to listen to the upstarts (who are pretty smart admittedly) droning away while we keep thinking ‘you know nothing honey’, but keep schtum in order to keep our jobs.  Some of us are grannies (which we love) but wondering (and I know you are) and some of us are just plain looking at the next twenty years and sighing.

Knowledge is power takes on a whole new meaning. Knowledge of working the HMTL, or is it the HTML cord or the remote is the challenging enough and now we need to remember which pair of glasses will allow us to find the buttons. It sucks.  Those designer outfits back in the cupboard for ‘one day’ are feeding the moths. Some of us wither at the thought of never wearing blue eyeshadow again, or chomping sixteen croissants before lunch.  So unfair, she cries, so unfair! Of course, the condescending articles of ‘you can still have an active sex life’, is darn right ugly, and mentioning the subject to your anyone else now becomes a no-go zone. Ugh, too much information, visual image too gross to think about.  Hah!

So we do two things: We capitulate and dream of knitting baby jerseys and embroidering cushions, of telling ourselves that we can get a free bus ride,  or we rebel and give Vivienne Westwood a run for her money. Both are bad options but society sometimes forces us to choose.  Why do we do that? Sink into the New Normal or fight it with bigger bosoms and not so tight everything else?  Our brains are adaptable to change, and quite capable of dealing with the New normal. Even if it means dinner for one, travelling solo, finding a new job or finding yourself for the first time.

We simply have to say … cool, the eyes grow dim, but the frames are a new fashion statement.  The muscle tone does not mean never again to sexy lingerie, or sex for that matter. Maybe not sixteen croissants and a lot more veggies/lettuce/smoothies/nuts … did I say nuts, and a bottle of wine … still beats the anti-depressant brigade at times, whatever floats your boat.

Adapt or die they say. It’s here.  The New Normal.  What you have to ask yourself is this …

How hung up am I on living in the past?

How frightened am I of embracing the future, with the changes we did not ask for, perhaps did not foresee, but lined up now like little tin soldiers?  Do we fall in line, take the lead, give them their orders or tuck them into bed? Are we troopers or innovators?

Do we see this new Normal, and it’s happening, as epitaph or a opportunity?

Who knows – are we Owls or Pussycats out to sea?  Which one shall we be in the New Normal on Silver Street.

Am hoping you’ll opt for the Owl – wise, with experience and able to swivel our heads to face and embrace the future, the New Normal, with grace and guts.

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