We are all familiar with the term: Midlife Crisis. It is supposed to be that period of transition in life where a person struggles with their identity. A friend of mine once summed it up so well. She had quite a dry sense of humour. Her portly, balding neighbour one day arrived home with a new rather red car with no trunk nor backseats. Observing him from her side of the fence, she shrugged and declared that at least it was only a sports car. It could have been dread locks or an affair, she said. Since that day, I cannot imagine a male midlife crisis any other way. I am sure, however, that retirement brings with it its own type of late life crisis.

With us counting the days down now to that line in the sand, you know the one where we have set a deadline for moving into the new house, I find myself looking at our current town with different eyes. Specially the women. I am starting to think that the female equivalent of a sports car must be an equally bad shopping experience, but instead of taking them down to an Audi or BMW dealership, it takes them other places. Far worse places. So, at the risk of sounding judgmental, here goes.

I had to consult with a medical person last week. On entering his consulting room, he almost looked relieved to see me. Because I looked so ordinary, before you ask. While waiting in the reception area, I observed the previous patient concluding her business. She was dressed in, well, I am not sure. I use the term “dressed” loosely. Dressing involves checking your final look in a mirror. I somehow doubt previous patient had done that. Hermanus must have a special thrift shop where clowns leave their costumes to be repurposed, it is the only thing that comes to mind. Having tried my best not to linger too long on her over baggy, over tie died, and hitched up like a makeshift dungaree, my look settled on the scrunched head band that was keeping a ponytail in place. The only problem with the ponytail is that it clearly was a hair piece and may once upon a time have matched her now too tired to be dyed hair.

She is not alone.

Sitting in our lounge a few Sundays ago, I could hear a pssssssf pssssf pssfff sound coming from outside, follow by a strong whiff of paint. I looked out the window, and there she was. My neighbour. With shirt hanging on a hanger from a tree branch. In her right hand: a can of yellow spray paint, and in her left hand? Purple spray paint. No need to tell you the rest of the story. I spotted her in town a few days later, dressed in a yellow and purple oversized shirt, over a pair of ripped jeans and a headband keeping her short, hope-it-looks-like-Billy-Idol spikey hair in place.

Perhaps, before retiring to the coast, these gals may have been a receptionist at a rather prestigious school, or a front desk person at an important bank, and this is their time to live out their inner hippie. You know, a little walk on the wild side. Oh, dear. May I never.

That brings me to another group of retirees you find down here. These are the ones that promise themselves that they will get fit and live long and happily. You can spot them on their bicycles: Mrs. Fitfad, desperately trying to keep up with Mr. Fitfad, who in turn is desperately trying to stay a bicycle length ahead of the Missus. Once this work out is done, they will take their little pink chicken legs down to the sea for an invigoratingly cold swim – up to their knees, before heading back home for a mouth-wide-open-and-drool-down-the-chin afternoon nap. Oh, dear. May I never.

In a town like this, running out of milk is the social leveler. There is only one shopping mall in town and when you need milk, it is the only place to go. Unfortunately so for the next group of retirees. This group used to be on the governing body of the prestigious school, or the manager of that important bank. You can spot them with the peculiar little pull they have to their mouths. It is a bit like when you sit in church, and you need a little sweetie to suck on, and instead of a fruit jube you pop a sour worm into your mouth, and because you are in church, you need to keep your pose. I call them the “Pruimbekkies”. And so, on any given day, you may find yourself queueing behind Flower Power, Peddling Pam and Mrs. Puckered Beak, all waiting for the car guard to pay for his milk.

Some time ago, I wrote about making a list of what not to do as I grow older. I think I need to update this list, and add a section on what not to wear, as I get older.