transition

My good woman says I’m in transition. She tells me it’s a difficult time for the problem gamblers she counsels, the time they are most likely to lose control, if they have any. Apparently I’m having a very late mid-life crisis, whereas I think of myself as in a state of perpetual misgiving.

Transition suggests movement from somewhere to somewhere else; from one job to another, or to not having a job. It could also be moving from one stage of life to another. These are matters for judgment. My own is that I’m not actually going anywhere, hence a vague but pervading feeling of discontent.

My good woman has a point. I was gainfully if not lucratively employed until 31 December. I earned a meagre salary, but it is packaged to advantage, my mortgage is fortnightly and descending rapidly. Going to work three days a week gives a modicum of structure to a mostly unroutine life. No structure props any part of it up right now.

I run an OCD house—everything has its place, but nothing runs to a timetable. I’m punctual to a fault for appointments, but if a time isn’t set for something to happen, then it could happen any time or just not happen at all. I don’t do any of my three favourite things at a set time. I don’t write every night or first thing every morning. I don’t ride regularly. I read at the strangest times.

My bank accounts move from Cr to Dr, my back gives me gip, my weight heads in the wrong direction, headaches are more frequent, and my gym attendance diminishes.

Perhaps transition just means out of kilter. We are full of contradictions. It makes us human.

Rock on.