Middle age is not for the faint of heart. Somewhere between 40 and 65 there comes a moment when the years we’ve lived meet the years we have left. That moment can knock us off-balance. Any regrets? Are we happy? Is happiness even a thing? Now, head spinning, the memories kick in — relentless, vivid, from awesome to awful. Memories of who we were — which made us who we’ve become. It’s a lot. It’s staggering. It’s also painful, enlightening, and can be pretty damn funny.
My moment knocked me on my ass. My parents were aging fast, my family was broken beyond repair, and my happily ever after was a lot more crappily ever faster. Did I mention it was Christmas? I was visiting L.A., my husband’s 3000 miles away, and my mother suddenly falls gravely ill. Happy Effin’ Holidays! I spend the next three months living in my (baby) brother’s home, with his family, caring for our parents, trying to salvage my marriage long-distance...and somehow fighting for my identity like I’m thirteen all over again! Whaa—?! All the time wondering, “How the hell did I get here?”
Private life and family always flavored my writing, but I‘d never written specifically about it. I’d worked to separate myself from it, to write what was all mine. But that season of extreme, almost surreal, familial closeness — during my own crisis
hailstorm — that forced me to look at it all point blank. No filters, no blinders. Whoa. All that mess I’d been avoiding? It was me. It made me who I am. And it made me laugh. (And cry. And everything in between.) And it turns out, I’m not the only one. So I reached in, reached back, reached out, and wrote up the first season of MIDDLE OF NOWHERE.
But enough talk. These episodes will let you...
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