So, I was doing some work with my business mentor last week, and she asked me about my ideal client. I’ve been at this place before with coaches, on marketing courses and I don’t like it. I don’t want to define and limit who chooses to work with me. So my head was going a bit “blah, blah, blah…”. Then she said something that snapped me out of it. In trying to offer help, she asked a question – if the clients were middle-aged women – like me?
I’m trying to listen to her, but my awareness is with my body. I can feel my hackles rising – “I’m not middle-aged!”. I mean obviously I’m going to live well past 100 so I haven’t got to “middle-aged” yet – whatever the fuck that means anyway!!!!!
It seems I have quite a few points of view around the term “middle-aged”. Its like some life sentence of getting fat and having to accept it, wearing mumsy skirts – with your spanx and sensible shoes, putting up with shit – because thats just the way it is.
Well, if that’s what “middle-aged’ is I’m not having it.
From now on I choose to be Mysteriously Aged. What does that mean? What ever the fuck I want it to in that moment.
Who wants to come and play with me? – I’ll be the one over here with the inappropriate shoes, drinking champagne, scaring the boys and playing music too loud. Come and play!!