We have harped on, for some time, about the Age of Anxiety. Anxiety, we bleat, is the glue that binds us together. Worry. Care. Burden. Oy.
But is something shifting? While the micro-anxiety (‘Was I a dick during that meeting?’) continues to do its grinding work, the macro anxiety (‘What’s the point of me?’) seems to be, if not subsiding, then, shape-shifting. Into a kind of a corrosive apathy. So that’s alright then. Sigh.
I bumped into a notable peppy author this morning. “Can’t really be bothered to work on a new book,” she said, fingering a label on her leggings. “Oh look they’re on inside out. Never mind.” And off she drifted.
We are forever being told that life is tougher for us than for our parents and, dear God, do we feel it. But is the prospect of a badly-handled Brexit (is there any longer much point in saying ‘Or any Brexit’), escalating human rights atrocities, the possibility of women’s reproductive rights being reversed in the US and staring down the loaded gun of a tanking economy when we are already oh so squeezed – is all that shit making us want to just… sit down and stare out of the window?
We’ve raged and marched and panicked and raised our voices and now… well… what? Downsizing to a tiny remote cottage where we don’t bother to read the papers? Selling up and taking a slow, meditative sabbatical? Probably not. Probably more of the same. But with rather less appetite. And that, Midults, is a fucking shame. Because just when we were getting magnificent, we wilted. And where exactly is the reinvigoration going to come from? Please don’t say meditation. Although, for the first time ever, I’m tempted. Which means things must be bad…