Don’t PMO or GOMN: I’ve Got Cranes in the Sky
“Thought a new dress make it better
I tried to work it away
But that just made me even sadder..”
Translation: Don’t piss me off or get on my nerves.
I repeat this mantra daily—sometimes in my head, sometimes out loud, sometimes directly to the person teetering on the edge of doing one (or both) of these things. It’s a simple request, really. Help me preserve what’s left of my emotional bandwidth by not adding unnecessary friction to my life. Because at 45? Life is already kicking my ass.
Nobody Warned Me About This
I was prepared for bills. Those were explained in detail. Sex? Vaguely. Kids? Sure, until about age five—then the wheels fall off. By 18, those wheels are now attached to some rickety, hand-built (and by hand-built, I mean built by YOUR hands) contraption you wouldn’t touch with a 10-foot pole, let alone trust on the open road.
Marriage? Even on try #2… *crickets.* No one actually explained this.
Aging parents? Why do the people who raised us suddenly act like they’re the ones who need raising? My 75-year-old mother, Zerella, will ignore my calls, and the next thing I know, I’m on her doorstep in Tennessee like some unannounced emotional detective. *Ma’am, pick up the phone before I have to show up.*
And grief. Oh, grief. I knew loss. I understood mourning. But losing my dad and sister within three years?
Unprecedented. Unrelenting. Unfair.
Grief doesn’t RSVP. It doesn’t send a calendar invite. It’s me watching Iron Claw, seeing Zac Efron sob, “I used to be a brother,” and suddenly I’m a puddle on the floor. It’s measuring every moment in *before* and *after* Dad died—a loss that set off a domino effect of chaos I’m still untangling seven years later.
The Myth of the "Together" 40’s
I thought midlife crises were for men. I assumed by 45, I’d have my emotional house in order. Instead, I’m cycling through tears, laughter, existential dread, and “What the hell am I doing?” on a near-weekly basis.
For the record, I have treated myself to an existential crisis quarterly for my entire adult life — hours-long phone calls to my sister, where she’d alternate between pep talks and calling me a “delicate flower” or “odd duck.” Now, my mom and my ride-or-die friend, Kim, and sometimes my 25-year-old daughter, Maci, get front-row seats to my inner monologue spirals. *Bless them.*
The Grand Canyon of My Soul
I’ve always been hard to piss off, but easy to annoy. My nerves? Usually steel. But life, like water carving through rock, has left its mark. I’ve brave-faced, sucked up tears, smiled through the mess, given advice like I had it all figured out, and vacationed like I wasn’t one random inconvenience away from screaming into the void.
Shopped.
Praised.
Danced.
Edibles - a story for another day.
And yet, here I am, writing my “Cranes in the Sky” (shoutout to Solange) blog post because guess what? Some days, it all gets to me. And this sh*t ain’t going away.
So Here’s the Deal
My 40s are teaching me that survival isn’t about having it all together—it’s about guarding my peace like it’s the last slice of cake. It’s about saying “no” without guilt, walking away from what drains me, and laughing when I damn well please (even if it’s slightly unhinged).
So if you see me muttering “Don’t piss me off…”under my breath, mind your business. Or better yet—let me get a nap.
- Not Here To Help (But Glad You’re Here Anyway)
**P.S.** If you’re in your 40s and feel this in your soul, drop a comment or share your own *“Don’t PMO”* story. We’re in this together. 💜