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.

Everyone makes New Year’s resolutions. This year I decided to make up a list of resolutions other people should follow, since I can’t seem to keep any of my own. Maybe I should set my sights lower, though I still have hopes I can become king of a small island nation populated with young, beautiful female swimsuit models. Here are a few I’d like to see. Only one each, and fulfilling them would certainly make the world a better place in my book:

Charlie Sheen – Realize that “Beyond the Law” was just the title of a movie you were in.

Sarah Palin – Stop writing books and try reading one for a change.

Joe Lieberman – Find a party you like and stick with it.

Barak Obama – Give up on those cancerous, white, death merchants. You know: Republicans.

Mahmoud Ahmadinejad – Look for a job in which the last thing you see won’t be a mob of 10 million Iranians calling for your head.

Angelina Jolie – Adopt an American kid, for Christ’s sake.

Madonna – Ditto.

Rush Limbaugh – Ask yourself whether the money you make is worth ruining everything America stands for.

Dick Cheney – More shooting lawyers, less shooting your mouth off.

Tiger Woods – No matter how difficult it may be, try to find happiness and satisfaction with only fame, a billion dollars, and your Swedish model wife.

Hugh Hefner – Lose the pajamas. Unless you have Alzheimer’s, you shouldn’t show up for interviews looking like grandpa trying to find his teeth in the morning.

Did I miss anyone? Suggestions are welcome.

• Now that both my kids are over 21, they ask for fewer presents. Unfortunately the gifts they ask for are usually much more expensive. Like a down payment on a house.

• My wife and I no longer have to worry about getting woken at 5:30 Christmas morning by the happy squealing of kids who want to open presents. We’re old enough now that when we go to bed we worry we won’t wake up. Ever.

• We think we’re so smart because we don’t believe in Santa Claus. Then we put our faith for retirement in Social Security.

• The only reason Black Friday is the biggest and busiest shopping day of the year is because we’re all too stupid to think, “Maybe I should avoid the crowds and go shopping on Saturday or Sunday.”

• More and more, people walking around the malls at Christmastime remind me of the zombies walking Monroeville Mall in Romero’s “Dawn of the Dead.”

• Every new Christmas music CD that comes out has the same dozen or so songs. Can’t we write some new ones? Anyone? Put your hand down, McCartney.

• If Louis Farrakhan did a Christmas CD, I doubt he’d include “White Christmas.”

• I’ve been married more than 30 years. Twice I got presents for my wife she actually liked. This year I’ll get her a gift card and that big, flat screen TV I’ve always wanted. I mean she’s always wanted. Yeah. That’s it. She.

• I don’t want to offend anyone by saying Merry Christmas. So if you pass me on the street, and I shout, “Fuck you, asshole!” you’ll know why.

Since when did getting your car’s oil changed become as complicated as launching an interplanetary probe? I’m not talking about the do-it-yourself type. Remember those? A socket wrench, a filter strap, a can spout, and a rag were all the tools needed, and I looked pretty damned manly doing it. Oh, I might have worn an apron so I wouldn’t get my clothes too greasy, but once I got started, the black sludge covered up the butterflies and flowers and filled the holes in the lace.
Now, at that HalfSquare age, I prefer to have someone else take care of even the simple jobs. I wouldn’t even pump my own gas if it weren’t for the fact that the full service price is a testicle-and-a-half per gallon and there’s actually no service performed. As for other simple chores, well, I’m still trying to find an inexpensive valet to dress me in the morning and tie my shoes.
My sloth was what brought to my attention the complexities of the modern oil change. Having to take an out-of-town trip, I didn’t have time to make an appointment with my usual mechanic, Ed “Ooh, That’s Gonna Cost Ya” Hemmy. Ed was known far and wide in auto repair circles for the utterly sincere sympathy he showed customers as he overcharged them, replacing perfectly good parts with realistic-looking cardboard replicas he constructed each night in his basement workshop. Often, while giving estimates for very expensive jobs, a tear can be seen escaping the corner of one eye, which will then show up as an item on the customer’s final bill, usually at $17.95 plus labor.
In a rush, I stopped at one of those instant oil change places. The price seemed reasonable – oil and filter for only $21.99. The establishment was clean and bright, staffed with young men and women who were neither. The exception was the clerk who greets the customers and sells them the service. He was obviously the brains of the operation, able to enter my vital statistics into the database without having to use the little pictures on the computer keyboard like they do at McDonalds. He took my keys and said they’d take care of me right away. That’s when it started.
In my world of sunshine, bright colors, and Oompa-loomps, an oil change is supposed to be a simple thing. Drain it and replace it. It’s not complicated. But the pit crew at this place acted like they were working for NASA. Orders were barked. Lights flashed. Bayonets were fixed. Sweethearts kissed one last time. I didn’t write down the exact exchanges of dialogue that transpired, but this is a pretty close reconstruction of events at my oil change.

“Driving into bay!”
“Driving into bay.”
“Ignition off!”
“Ignition is off. Roger that.”
“Opening door and exiting vehicle!”
“Roger. You are cleared for extra-vehicular activity.”
(In the pit below the car, the “technician” begins the process.)
“Rolling drip pan in place. Drip pan is in place.”
“Confirm drip pan in place.”
“Removing oil fill cap. Removed.”
“Roger that.”
“Now moving to oil plug. Lefty-loosey on the oil plug.”
“Roger lefty-loosey.”
“Uh, control. We have greater resistance on the lefty-loosey than we had in training. Request permission to use longer socket wrench for leverage.”
“One moment, Eagle One.”
(30 seconds of silence.)
“Okay, the consensus here is a go. You are authorized for longer socket wrench.”
“Roger. Attempting lefty-loosey with longer wrench. I can…(inaudible)…mother…(inaudible)…sucker…she’s loose! It’s…yes, we have positive oil flow. Repeat. Positive oil flow.”
“Roger that. Eagle One, mission control would like to know if you feel it’s safe to proceed with filter removal.”
“I feel conditions are optimal for filter removal.”
“You may proceed then.”
(A few minutes pass.)
“Filter is off.”
“Roger, Eagle One. What’s your estimate for replacement of oil plug?”
“I’m examining plug now. It looks like it was over-tightened during routine maintenance, but thread integrity is still good.”
“Uh, we recommend using a torque wrench for righty-tighty on the oil plug so we don’t have a repeat of the lefty-loosey next time.”
“Roger that. Replacing oil plug now. (Grunting.) Oil plug is in place. Proceeding to oil filter replacement now.”
(Commotion is heard from pit.)
“What…it’s not…(inaudible)…I can’t…(loudly, with fear) Mission control! The filter will not thread on! Repeat! Filter will not thread on!”
“Eagle One, are you sure you have the correct replacement part?”
(Still agitated.) “I can read a filter chart, damn it! I’m telling you it won’t thread! If it doesn’t go on, I’ll be stranded down here! Do you hear me? Stranded!”
“Stay calm. Panicking won’t help. Can you see any thread burrs? Maybe you can file them down.”
“Damn it, Jim! I’m an oil change technician, not a machinist!”
(Voices arguing, inaudible.)
“Uh, we have our people up here working on our duplicate Ford, and we think we’ve got a solution. Now, I know this will sound crazy, and it goes against every rule in the book, but it’s all we’ve got. Double the lubricant on the filter thread. Repeat. Double the lubricant.”
(Silence.)
“Double the lubricant? You scientists think you can play God with a filter! But let me tell you, some things were never meant for man to do! You can count me out!”
“I know how you feel. It’s dangerous. It’s unethical. Hell, it’s probably illegal in Massachusetts, Vermont, Colorado, California, and anywhere prohibited by law, but we didn’t join the Instant Oil Change Corps to debate the niceties. We joined to give mankind the best damned oil change in under 30 minutes, and by God we’re not going to let that incredibly handsome and obviously virile guy who drove in here down!” (He may not have used those exact words, but I’m paraphrasing.)
“Forgive me, Jim. It was just a moment of panic. It won’t happen again. Preparing to re-lubricate the filter thread. Lube complete. I’m giving it another try.”
(One minute of silence.)
“Negative on the oil filter.”
(Moaning, cursing, and rending of overalls from the sales desk.)
“Preparing to triple the lubricant.”
“What? No! You can’t! Wait for us to come up with another solution! I know what I said before, but this is madness!”
“That may be, Jim, but you were right. We took an oath. I’m finishing this job no matter what the cost. Preparing to triple lubricant. And please…tell my girlfriend, Lindsey, that I kinda like her and she’s really smokin’ in those low-cut black jeans that show off the top of the unicorn tattoo on her ass.”
“Will do, and God speed, Dude. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…”
“I got it! It’s in! It’s in!”
(Cheers from the sales desk.)
“Roger Eagle one. We’re almost home. Prepare to inject five quarts of premium 10W30 motor oil.”
“Right. Injecting oil now. Oil injection is over. Replacing oil fill cap. Cap on. Mission complete.”
“Very good, Eagle One. Everyone up here is proud. Damn proud. And when you get back, there’ll be a burger and a cold Red Bull waiting for you…on me, you big lug nut.”

I felt proud to be an eyewitness to this younger generation’s finest hour. Well, finest half hour, or it would have been free. Still, the sterility of the experience put me off. It all seemed so overproduced, like a film adaptation of “The Little Engine That Could” directed by Vincent Minelli. I guess I just don’t feel something that simple should be made so complicated.
Which reminds me. Did I ever tell you about my dinner at that Japanese steak house? We were seated around this big grill, see, and this guy comes out with these really big knives…