Why Can’t I Have a Midlife Crisis? (All the other guys are having one.)
I’m at that age when I should be having a midlife crisis. It’s not a specific age, like the one you reach to be eligible for Social Security. It’s a span of years somewhere between “my jeans seem a little tight” and “does this adult diaper make my ass look big?”
Midlife crises present themselves in many ways, but usually with the same underlying symptom: sudden awareness of mortality. It’s the surprise attack on the battlefield of life; the Pearl Harbor of what you imagined was the tropical idyll that would never end, the thought of which makes you want to get bombed.
I admit it. Every time I read about some guy ten years younger than me who dies after his clogged heart throws a cholesterol hairball and backs up his cardiac plumbing, I start thinking, “Wow! That could have been me! Maybe I should watch my diet and…hey, is that a cream-filled donut?”
In spite of things like other people dying, the gray hair (and lack thereof), wrinkles, sagging, and terminal bloating, I don’t seem to be immersed in a midlife crisis. I’m not sure why, other than I’m a pretty boring guy to begin with. I like things the way they are, changeless and eternal. I still tune in to CBS on Monday nights waiting for new episodes of M*A*S*H to start. (Oh, that Frank Burns! What a geek!) Boring? I’ve put crystal meth addicts to sleep with my life story.
Midlife crises are not pretty. Men afflicted with MC often begin dating younger women. I’ve seen them when my wife and I are out. Some 50-ish idiots with diamond studs in one ear and Bluetooth phones stuck in the other. They look like fat, balding, male Uhuras, vainly trying to connect with the Starfleet Command of their youth. The girls are laughing too loudly at their bon mots (they don’t understand what bon mot means), while the guys throw out hip terms they don’t really understand how to use. “Wanna go back to my hizzle for a little shizzle?” They sound like they’re speaking Yiddish.
Flashy sports car, hip clothes, martini bars. Not sure I could afford a midlife crisis even if I had one. Once I got the car, threads, and jewelry I’d have to find a young girl who thinks a hot guy is one who can’t spend more than $8.00 and change on a night out. Or stay up after 8:00 on a night out.
So for now, even though my peers may be trying to recapture their youth in frantic and farcical style, I’m letting mine slip away quietly, free to go where it wants. Besides, I’m happy with my life the way it is, and with my wife the way she is. You know. Apt to kill me the moment I mention the word Porsche.
