I never really thought of myself as a mid-life crisis kind of guy, but then, as my friend Jim pointed out, I’ve never been in mid-life before. My symptoms were classic: restless and vaguely dissatisfied, I sighed a lot and could see no good reason to deny myself dessert. I felt paunchy and jowly and I obsessed that my best years were behind me. Jim said this was probably because my best years were behind me.
I come from a very stoic family so I resolved to suffer in silence, only sharing my crisis with 18 or 20 of my closest friends, and swearing each of them to secrecy, or no more than a fleeting mention on Facebook. Since they are all in varying states of crisis themselves, they each gave me advice.
Will told me that whatever happened I should absolutely not have an affair with a 24 year old. I nodded silently, remembering that he had had a spectacularly ill-advised fling with a young woman named Rapture who he met at —- well, her name was “Rapture” — you do the math. Insensitive friends still make oblique reference to the fact that Rapture was younger than Will’s daughters, and our mutual friend Sage unkindly suggested that Rapture was younger than Will’s Akita.
My buddy Eric thought that a zippy little convertible was just what I needed. “You can’t feel good about yourself driving a dirty old clunker,” he told me, looking with distaste at my 10-year old SUV. I nodded politely, but I did not give this any serious thought since I was not going to advertise my crisis to the entire world: Show me a middle aged man in a sporty little convertible and I’ll show you a bottle of Viagra in the glove compartment.
Larry told me point-blank that since I am childless my angst was neither appropriate nor legitimate. “Seeing how your kids turn out is the only valid reason to have a mid-life crisis,” he told me. I saw his point: His 24-year old twin sons are unemployed and still live at home, playing video games and downloading porn. “Larry Junior has a college degree and was just fired from Panera,” Larry told me with wonder. “How does someone get fired from Panera?”
Kevin suggested that I sign up for the “Tough Mudder,” a 12-mile long obstacle course where participants crawl under barbed wire and walk over hot coals. “You haven’t lived until you’ve experienced the ‘Arctic Enema,’” he told me. Other friends had other equally implausible suggestions to stare down middle age: Bungee jumping. Skydiving. And most terrifying of all, square dancing.
My friend Elizabeth has no tolerance for whiny middle-aged men, mainly because she’s been married to several of them. She came into my house and immediately stuck her head in the freezer. “You want a crisis?” she said bitterly, ”try going through menopause. When you have hot flashes every day for seven or eight years then we’ll talk about a crisis.” I tried to protest but she was dismissive. “You’re just self-absorbed,” she told me, adding, ”besides you’re only paunchy and jowly when you stand or sit.”
I stopped at Ed’s house a couple of days later. “Aging happens to everyone,” he said sensibly , mixing himself a martini, “you just need coping mechanisms.” Since Ed is a clinical psychologist I paid close attention. “Get rid of every mirror in your house,” he advised, chugging his martini. He asked me if I wanted one as he mixed himself another.
“Ummm, it’s 10:30 in the morning,” I told him.
“What’s your point?” he asked.