9 weekend plans that midlifers always make... then break

Annabel Rivkin and Emilie McMeekan
'You plan to have a better weekend Because you are terror-stricken that your weekends are actually a metaphor for your existence: wasteful, teary, drunk and greedy, instead of virtuous, inspiring and nourishing' - Getty Images

1. The plan to have an incredibly long bath with all the trimmings

You are going to do a face mask. You’re pretty sure there’s a tube of something mask-y in the cabinet, by the anti-anxiety drops/drugs/gels. Also, you need to find a scrub to prep for the amazing fake-tanning situation that is about to happen.

You are going to soak in magnesium until the stress and cellulite melt away, and you become a lean, mean, ready-to-be-tanned machine. Oh, but you can’t find any exfoliator and the bath is too hot and slimy (can bath oil go off?).

You emerge after two minutes looking like a boiled sweet that’s been rolled around the carpet: red and fuzzy. You tan yourself anyway. The result is NOT GOOD.

2. The plan to go to an exercise class

There it is: the perfect class. Five minutes from home, near a French patisserie for your post-workout almond croissant and skinny latte. A combination of Beyoncé dancing (still got it) and yoga/stretching (lying down). You book. You do not go. You never go… You do find time for the almond croissant though.

3. The plan to have sex

It’s now or never. Make or break. You missed your weeknight sex window. If you miss the weekend one, that’s it – you may never have sex again. 

4. The plan to really nail your weekend wardrobe

You have nothing to wear for work. Or for parties. But the laws of wardrobe physics must mean that your weekend game is strong. *Opens the cupboard… Stares into an abyss of randomness for 25 minutes… Goes back to bed.*

5. The plan to do an Instagram cull

This is the moment you have been waiting for, a quiet Instagram culling session: part-vindictive, part-life-affirming. You are taking back control of your social-media borders. But suddenly you are hit with post-unfollow disorder.

What if they notice? What if they have one of those apps to track who has unfollowed them? You hit ‘follow’ again, only to find they’ve gone private and your request has been sent. You spend the rest of the weekend panicking, thinking up texts to explain yourself. They do not accept your request… You are on the outside now. 

6. The plan of all the meals you’ll cook

The bliss of a cookbook. Stroking the pages. The joy of thinking about the person you will be when you have mastered all the dishes. The happiness you will spread. The dinner parties you will have. Why don’t you have dinner parties any more? You add, add, add to your online grocery list. Then you panic and remove, remove, remove.

7. The plan to spend some time alone in the car

Does the car need a wash/petrol/an oil change? Does the house need milk/mothballs/flowers? Maybe you need to get one of those window-cleaner things from the pound shop or some salami from the deli, or to return the library books? Anyway, you slam on the radio and your sunglasses, and head for the open road. You are born to be wild. Until you forget which side the fuel cap is on and spend 25 minutes trying to reverse in and out of the petrol station.

8. The plan to get a piercing/tattoo

After three hours on Pinterest looking at tiny tattoos and twinkly piercings, your resolve is strong. This will be the thing that shifts the tectonic plates of your life. You head to the parlour to find it doesn’t open for two hours. My, what hours these tattooists/piercers keep! (Did you just think that? You did.) You repeat this process. Once a month. Till you die.

9. The plan to have a better weekend

Because you are terror-stricken that your weekends are actually a metaphor for your existence: wasteful, teary, drunk and greedy, instead of virtuous, inspiring and nourishing. You must have a nobler weekend full of galleries, theatre and kombucha-making classes. You will. Narrator: she won’t.

I’m Absolutely Fine! A Manual for Imperfect Women, by The Midults, is out now in paperback (Cassell, £8.99); themidult.com