Wendyl Nissen: Conspiracy theory

Photo / Bay of Plenty Times

There is something very depressing about opening up a promotional package for the TV show Cougar Town and finding a bright pink shirt which says "40 is the new 20".

I'm 48, so what's that new for? 24? The only thing I do know for sure about being 48 is that it's within throwing distance of 50 and therefore as good a reason as any to have a mid-life crisis.

It started when I didn't want to do anything for my 48th birthday. This from the woman who loves any excuse for a party and a bit of a fuss themed around the central motif of me.

"I just want to disappear," I said. "A quiet day for me I think, that's all I can manage."

I was bundled off to the caravan by a disbelieving husband who ensured I had a lot of quiet and a night out at an Indian restaurant in a nearby town.

"Lovely," I whispered the moment before I switched on my cellphone, not really interested in any birthday texts, just checking for work messages.

"It keeps beeping," said my husband over the beef vindaloo. "Do you think you should check it?"

"Oh, look at that," I said, pretending not to be too delighted. "Birthday wishes!"

I then spent the rest of the meal texting heartfelt thanks to each and every one of them while my rejected husband ate all the naan.

We returned home as if nothing had happened. It was almost as if there was no birthday. Just a dim memory, nothing too significant. Which was fine by me.

Until I realised I didn't have any presents. I had family presents which were all lovely, but not as many friend presents as I am used to.

"Do you think everyone forgot?" I said, hurt and dejected.

"They might have thought that, because you hid at the caravan, you might not have expected them to spend their hard-earned money on someone who refuses to celebrate," said my husband. "And they did all send texts."

"But I haven't got any presents!" I wailed, proving that 48 is perhaps the new five.

I sat at social gatherings with my friends waiting for something to appear on the table with a nod to my celebration.

"A tad late," they would say. "But with fond recognition of a lovely birthday and a lovely woman." And some did, but others...

"No present," I said, stomping home from a lunch.

Then the conspiracy theories started. Were the presents actually delivered in my absence and stuffed somewhere by adult children looking after the house?

This has happened in the past as various children have thrown parcels in different rooms of the house only to be found years later under beds, behind couches and desks.

"And what if I was supposed to thank them, and they think I'm just being rude, especially after they went to the trouble of dropping a present off?"

"Let it go," was all my husband said. "You are not five. Presents cannot be expected as a right of friendship, they are an expression of love. Perhaps you are just not particularly loved at this point in time."

I fired off an email.

"This is awkward, but did you give me a present which I forgot to thank you for? No trouble if you didn't, just didn't want you to think I was being rude."

"No, didn't give you one," came the reply. "Forgot. Will drop something around in the weekend."

Now I felt even worse. A birthday present bully. Meanwhile, the mid-life crisis had set in.

I thought that when I got to 50 I would have everything I have worked hard for all my life. "And I have worked hard," I moaned. "I only ever took a few weeks off when I gave birth to the kids and I Have Never Depended on a Man to Support Me. Ever!"

My husband settled in for yet another treatise on my feminist-inspired financial independence, my dreams for seaside cottages, extensive travels in exotic lands and an income derived solely from writing best-selling books.

"I think you should know that I'm having a mid-life crisis but, so far, and fortunately for you, it doesn't involve running off with a younger man, cougar-style. I'm quite happy to keep you on."

"Shame," was what I heard but he insists that what he actually said was "same".