The Crisis Begins

Before the phoenix rose from the ashes, it must have self-combusted with a a bit of a bang. This is the story about my personal little combustion and my attempts to rise gracefully from it.
It seems to be common knowledge that a man can suffer from a mid-life crisis but no-one seems to apply this to women. And bless the dear French for saying a woman blooms at 40 , but I have to say at 39, I'm already sans a few petals.
Do women have a mid-life crisis as such? I think we do. Think gym memberships, being familiar with the names 'Trinny and Susannah', watching make-over shows (the kind ones. The bitchy ones are for younger people) and asking nervous household members- "Do I look like mutton dressed as lamb?"
I think any of these things plus looking at your face and/or wardrobe in dismay are clear signs that it may be happening to you. And, possibly one of the worst parts is that, whilst a few vague aches and pains may visit on occasion , you are very much still alive. I have to say, hormonally I'm having the biggest party yet. Here I am blowing my hooter full toot and all I hear is "Mum, you're embarrassing me again." Hey, I don't exist to bow to the whims of the young and contemptuous but I am suffering from a huge feeling of LOST.
Things came to ahead recently on a trip to a shopping centre. I have to say here I do not enjoy shopping. I find it bewildering, expensive and generally frustrating. When people say the words "Clothes shopping." I see myself, perspiring in a 4000000 watt fluorescent lit cubicle struggling to get out of something tight whilst trying not to see my backside in the three unkind, insensitive mirrors. Urghhh!
Anyway on this particular day, I had gotten ready in a hurry and was wearing something I was uncomfortable in but had run out of time. We drove to the shopping centre where we split up for a time and I walked around by myself. No one I'm sure gave me a second glance but I imagined they were, thinking "Dear God, get a load of that poor sod." I swear I looked like Bridget Jones in the third and worst, ten years on, sequel. I went to a department store but there was no-one about to ask for help regarding pajama's. I wanted something sexy, yet flannel-like that did not get all wedgie in your, ahem, sleep. I wandered around by myself, finally buying 3 things without trying them on (classic change-room avoidance) and brought them home to find only one fit. I was going to have to go back! Nooooo!
In my ensuing mope I daydreamed about having a personal stylist, so I hopped onto the Internet and had a look at exactly what these people did and, what it cost. The answer was 'a fair bit' on both counts. My husband suffered a small amount of hair loss when I told him about it all. "What a rip-off!" were his words but I thought about something I had read. On one site people were weighing up the value of a stylist. One girl said "I am paying tens of thousands of dollars for a university education. Why would I not spend a fraction of this on myself to educate myself on how to look my best?" I thought it was a valid point but I still didn't have a spare $1500. I looked at all the things a stylist could give advice on and thought finally- "Gosh, darn it, I can do this for myself." And I decided, on a mega tight, preferably free, budget I would be my own stylist and blog about it so other people, time poor, money lacking and mid-life crisis suffering like myself might do the same. So next blog, I'll tell you all the kinds of things I plan to cover, where I get my information and the results of a massive wardrobe clear-out as a feel-good beginning to starting afresh.