What crisis?

This landed in my inbox today:

Where Will 2025 Take You, Nariman?

10 best places to have a mid-life crisis. Bored of the same old routine? Throw off the shackles of your daily life... Lose your inhibitions and seize the day with this decadent round-up...

At first I was offended.

Mid-life crisis...who?

Inhibitions...Moi?

And then...SOLD!

It spoke to me, people.

Loudly. Clearly. With jazz hands.

I mean, not the talk of shackles or boredom, but if it comes with travel, mocktails, and the possibility of harmless, carefree encounters with some pleasure seeking strangers, who am I to resist? It would be rude.

Of course, having been raised on a steady diet of guilt and practicality, I’d need solid justification for such an indulgence -already living in South-East Asia as I am-  3 hours to Bangkok, and even less to Singapore! Elizabeth Gilbert took an entire year to 'Eat, Pray, Love' her way through Italy, India, and Bali. Surely, I could justify a mere three-week escapade to reinvent myself?

And so, the scenarios began playing out in my head. Fanciful, self-indulgent, utterly delicious possibilities:

Paris. Yes, please.

A dark, quaint bistro. I slowly sip on something rich, dark and black, exchanging knowing glances with a silver-haired retiree wearing a hoodie that reads "9 to 5 sucks" and a devilish smile and end up conversing about remote work and nomad culture and personal brands and the future of AI... And he laughs, excited by talks of online calls in tiny cafes followed by catnaps in the car between meetings.

Thailand.  Hello, island life.

Beachfront yoga. I suddenly become a woman who meditates (instead of just downloading meditation apps and forgetting about them). And I indulge in long conversations with the solo traveller from Iceland and we spent the afternoon plaiting each other's hair and wear a single frangipani flower in windswept, salty waves and walk with flowy  white skirts along coastlines with baby-powder soft sands and feed our souls on grapes and stories of great romances - and dodgy ones.

Argentina. Mama mia.

I learn to tango. My partner is moody and dark, and barks at me and with the flick of his wrist he commands me to come closer and I bend backwards arching my back, my body a pretzel, my bones no longer tired, my limbs infused with the rhythm of the beat, and I become unrecognisable in the throes of the dance. The music pulses through me, bold, rhythmic, electric. It weaves through the air, and I respond instinctively. Hips sway, feet glide, the sensuality of the dance unlocking something primal and exhilarating. The energy of the crowd fuels me, the beat commanding me to move, to let go...

Mmmm...

But just as I’m about to Google flights, a thought slams into me like a rogue piece of luggage off the airport carousel, dislodging contents in a box marked with a Fragile sticker: Why the hell do I need to reinvent myself?

Seriously.

I’m already a woman who eats, enthusiastically. Every meal I devour is with gusto and usually in the company of fascinating people.

I pray, not only in times of crisis, but on the daily, I sit in gratitude. I’ve witnessed enough in my travels to know the power of belief, the divine, and the magic of a whispered hope.

And love? Oh, don’t get me started. I am and have been loved by the best of men. And I have landed up with my very own leading man. He drives me crazy on the best of days, but damn if he isn’t my favourite rollercoaster ride, forever having me scream out at the top of my lungs in pleasure, or frustration.

So, yeah. The article spoke to me... briefly. Gilbert's book inspired me... briefly. The premise was entertained... briefly, then dismissed.

Because here’s the truth: I don’t need a journey of self-discovery. I already know who I am. I wander the world on my own terms. I’ll continue to hop on planes, collect passport stamps, and dive into adventure. But I’ll do it alongside my favourite people.

And if a beautiful stranger does happen to show up in Bangkok, well... who am I to deny my dance with destiny?