Midlife style choices.

I'll tell you what I've noticed! That once you hit your forties, society just starts nudging you toward the grave with a smile. Like, they don’t say it outright, but they start offering you brochures for things like “low-impact aerobics” and “colon-friendly diets.” You’re not even dead yet, but they’re already prepping the embalming fluid. “Hey, you like DIY and regular bowel movements? Come join our club!” What the hell kind of pitch is that!?

I saw this flyer the other day looked like it was printed in 1997 on a Windows 95 printer. It said, “Are YOU between 38 and 50?” Like it was some kind of secret society. Like you’re going to show up and there’s a handshake and a decoder ring and maybe a commemorative mug that says “I survived my metabolism.” And then it hits you this isn’t a club. It’s a holding pen. It’s where they put you when you’re too old to be cool but too young to be dead.

And the questions! “Do YOU like to hit the sack before 10:30 most weekdays?” What kind of idiot is writing this? Who’s out here bragging about their bedtime like it’s a personality trait? “Oh yeah, I’m a Capricorn, I enjoy documentaries, and being unconscious by 10:15 sharp.” What happened to us? We used to stay up till 3am eating pizza and watching people fall off skateboards. Now we’re setting alarms for fiber pills.

And then they hit you with the trifecta: “DIY, watching television, and keeping regular bowel movements.” That’s the utopia of middle-aged hobbies right there! DIY? That’s just code for “I spent six hours trying to fix a tap and now my bathroom looks like a crime scene.” Watching television? That’s not a hobby, that’s a symptom. That’s what you do when your knees sound like bubble wrap and your social life is a WhatsApp group called “Pub? Maybe next month.”

And regular bowel movements? That’s not an interest, that’s a biological necessity. That’s like saying “breathing” is one of your passions. What are we doing here? Are we really at the point where we’re bonding over the consistency of our stool? “Oh yeah, Dave’s a good guy. Bit of a loose cannon, but he’s got a textbook Bristol 4.” What the hell happened to us!?

You know what this is? This is the bedroom slipper brigade. It’s the slow march toward irrelevance, wrapped in a cozy blanket and served with a side of chamomile tea. They want you to pack up your ambitions, your dreams, your last shred of dignity, and come join the club where the highlight of the week is a new episode of “The Repair Shop.”

And don’t get me wrong! I’m not saying you got to be out clubbing till 4am with glow sticks and ketamine. But there’s got to be a middle ground between “raging youth” and “enthusiastic prune consumer.” Like, can we not have a club for people who still have opinions but also own a heating pad? Where’s the flyer for that?

And the worst part? They make it sound fun. “Come and join us!” Like it’s a party. Like you’re going to show up and there’s going to be music and laughter and maybe a keg. No, you show up and it’s a bunch of people comparing knee braces and arguing about which supermarket has the best own-brand digestive biscuits! It’s not a party it’s a waiting room!

Have you ever talked to someone in that age bracket who’s fully leaned into it? They’ve got the slippers, the robe, the recliner with lumbar support. They speak in weather updates and bowel reports. “Oh it’s a bit nippy today, but I had a lovely movement this morning.” What are you supposed to say to that? “Congratulations, Bob. Tell me more about your colon while I chew on this drywall.”

And don’t even get me started on the DIY crowd. These are the people who think watching a YouTube video qualifies them to rewire their house. “Oh yes, I saw a guy do it in 12 minutes. I’m sure I can figure it out.” Next thing you know, they’ve blacked out half the neighborhood and their shed’s on fire. But they’re proud of it! “Built it with my own two hands.” Yes, and now your insurance premium looks like a phone number.

Watching television? That’s the glue holding this demographic together. It’s not even about the shows it’s about the ritual. You sit down, you get your blanket, you’ve got your snack that doesn’t upset your stomach, and you watch the same five people renovate the same house for the fifteenth time. And you love it. You love it. Because it’s safe. It’s predictable. Nobody’s yelling, nobody’s twerking, and the biggest drama is whether the backsplash matches the countertops.

And then there’s the bowel movement people. These are the ones who’ve got a spreadsheet. They know the time, the texture, the trajectory. They’ve got a routine. They eat the same thing every day, they drink their water, they do their little walk around the block, and boom—like clockwork. And they talk about it like it’s a sport. “Oh yeah, I had a championship-level drop this morning. Clean break, no splash. Felt like I won Wimbledon!”

So yes, if you’re between 38 and 50, and you’ve traded your dreams for a heated blanket and a subscription to Which? Magazine, then congratulations you’ve been recruited. Pack up your bedroom slippers, leave your dignity at the door, and come join the club where the motto is “We don’t party, we percolate.”

But me? I’m not going down like that. I’m gonna fight it. I’m gonna rage against the dying of the light. I’m going to wear inappropriate footwear and eat spicy food and stay up till 11 just to prove a point. Because once you start listing “regular bowel movements” as an interest, you’re not living you’re just monitoring!