Tales from Midlife – Echoes from the Parallel Universe

After my divorce, I found myself back in the waters that tasted like my 20s. Men started to check in. One British, dashing douchebag heard the call. The other, a homeless surfer dude, floated by with zero interest in commitment. And I’m asking myself; what direction am I moving, exactly?

At 47, half your life is done. The big questions are supposed to be over: What should I be as an adult? Will I have kids? Who should I marry? Where can I live? And… do I have enough money for that full-moon party trip to Thailand?

But are the questions really over? How much can I toss up in the air again without ruining the lives of all the people suddenly depending on me, including myself?

Scratching an itchy scab can compare to that amazing first bite of a meaty kebab after a boozy night out.

You know that moment when you finally tell your self-discipline to go f**k itself and you just give in—your hard fingernails rubbing up against that itchy spot that’s been begging for momentary relief.

That’s sort of how a broken heart can feel to me. Sort of a painful relief.

This is the story of trying to heal heartbreak in India and about finding out something unexpected.

Popular fiction often blames “daddy issues” for women’s struggles with love and maintaining healthy relationships. And how often do the strippers in movies come from a background with an absent father? Well, my daddy loved me—and he was an amazing man—so he’s not to blame for my bad luck in love. For that reason, I want to tell you the story of a man who (almost) cured leprosy, traveled the Silk Road, and once helped the sheriff of Singapore solve crimes.

I have gone through hostage training and learned how to endure under extreme pressure and torture scenarios, but nothing prepares me for mornings where his gaze never meets mine. The kitchen chaos, the clanging dishes, the yelling all pale in comparison to the silence between us. Not being seen, not being recognized, feels like its own kind of captivity. What I do next might not be a good strategy, but at this time it is the only option I see.

This is the tale of a midlife woman in Copenhagen who, fresh out of divorce, falls into a romantic fantasy with a surf instructor in Costa Rica who borrows a bed in a hostel, owns no long pants and no bank account. Part 2.

This is the tale of a midlife woman in Copenhagen who, fresh out of divorce, falls into a romantic fantasy with a surf instructor in Costa Rica who borrows a bed in a hostel, owns no long pants and no bank account. Part 1.

I suffer from a stifling fear for my survival. That fear has nothing to do with thoughts of being kidnapped, killed, or raped in these menacing, chaotic, and blatantly dangerous war zones. In those places, I have always felt protected. The imperfection soothes me. And being there, I always had the distinct feeling that something or someone had created an invisible shield around me. Nothing could harm me. My fear creeps in when I am in the “safety” of civil society.

Your face might not be what it was. The mirror might reflect a different version of you than the one you see in your mind’s eye. You’ve tried the needles, the peelings, the lifts—and honestly, you’re just exhausted from fighting an uphill battle. None the less, here is a love letter to your face.

Do you keep ending up with men who are not only emotionally unavailable, but also extremely efficient at being physically unavailable too? The kind who always have a hobby, mission, project, or deeply serious personal interest that keeps them just out of reach? This is a fairytale about that specific type of absence. And about what it does to you when wanting to be chosen turns into shrinking yourself, adjusting yourself, eroding a little at a time just to stay close. This fairytale is for you.