Ladies, I Found Out What Our Mid-Life Crisis Looks Like
A mid-life crisis for men has a stereotype: trading in the wife for a younger model, getting testosterone shots, a sports car, and generally trying to look younger, stronger, sexier. A man's mid-life crisis is about cheating death: they have glimpsed their mortality, and are running from it as fast and ridiculously as they can. I could cite numerous examples of the stereotype, but.... ----->
(Need I say more?)
But what about us ladies in our 50s? Those of us whose biological clocks have stopped, who have gone from MILF-y to grandmotherly in what seems like one year to another. We have seen our parents get old and/or die, we have kept up homes, careers, and supported spouses, we have sent children out into the world. We have been expected to be everything to everyone, and we are tired. Now, we finally have some time to think about what we want for ourselves.
I know what we want: We want chickens. (Hear me out.)
When my husband and I moved to Arkansas, we thought about getting chickens eventually, and after about three years here we did. We (meaning I) researched and prepared for them. We bought a coop, built a chicken run, read some books, bought some pullets in the mail, and joined the backyard chicken brigade. I wake up early to feed them, gather four eggs daily, and we put them away at sunset. Recently, I've been going live on TikTok as I let them free range. Do you know who my biggest demographic is? Women over 55. Yep! And a lot of them comment in my feed about their own chickens.
You see, chickens don't care whether your hair has turned gray or not. They are relaxing to watch, they don't take an inordinate amount of care (as long as they are healthy), and they give you fluffy but nuggets as a thank you for taking care of them! Yes, my husband helps tend to the chickens. But let's be honest- it's me that does the bulk of the care-taking. I buy their feed and bedding, let them out in the morning, make sure they have their afternoon snack, and add apple cider vinegar to their water every week. He puts them away at night (after they have already gone to sleep). He does take over morning duty once in a while so that I can sleep in, but overall, I feel like they have become more mine than his. I love my chicken time!
This is what I want for my next stage of life. To wander with my hens in the yard in the late afternoon with my boobs swinging bra-less. Sipping my glass of wine, watching my chickens hunt and peck, listening to the songbirds, thinking about what art or cooking project I want to take up next. I'm not running from old age, bitches; I'm running to it. Call me grandma. Call me a crazy chicken lady. Call me old, frumpy, over-the-hill, past my prime- I. Don't. Care.
I think for the women of my generation, our mid-life crisis looks like finally not giving a fuck about what anyone thinks. That is a lifetime of work, folks. Especially for women. Long live the crazy chicken ladies.
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