I found out recently that supermodel Cindy Crawford has hired a coach to help her negotiate midlife. In a cover story for the wonderfully named Haute Living magazine (how haute is your life, hmm?), Crawford is pictured at 56, goddess that she is, wearing a lacy bralette so tiny and delicate it looks like it was woven by the guild of fairy spiders in 15th-century Flanders. It would disintegrate if it even saw a washing machine. Do you wear it once then throw it away? Sorry, I’m getting distracted by Dior lingerie: the main point was the midlife coach.
Crawford says she had an epiphany at Burning Man festival (or hell as I’d call it, given that it’s a happening with sand, 40C heat, camping and “radical self-expression”, four of my least favourite things). The unprecedented freedom apparently prompted a realisation that, in her normal life, her time was not sufficiently her own. “It’s me questioning, at this point in my life, do I still want to be all of those things that I unconsciously signed up for?” she said.
