Middle Age

I was talking to a friend last week about middle age. He is older than I am, and told me not to worry about that, because it's still a few years out yet. I looked at him quizzically (which isn't easy because I haven't perfected that expression), and it brought up the meaning of middle age. I always took it to mean the forties, or roughly half your reasonable life expectancy. At the rate I'm going, I would consider myself fortunate to be at the halfway point now, and I'd less surprised if the sun didn't come up tomorrow than if my true, chronological midway point was still ahead of me. The only useful observation I have on the subject is that I've recognized one warning sign of maturity: you become the one who sends holiday greeting cards, as much as or more than you were the one who sits around waiting for them.

In any event, it raised the question of middle age, including an ever-popular subject inside my head, the midlife crisis.

I have always been the first to admit that I am an odd duck. If I were a cow among the mooing herd, I have no doubt that I would stand around all day going: "Mehhhhh..." in an innate, irrepressible expression of individuality, and giggling when I fart, with a conspicuous distance between me and the other, rightly-nervous cows. If midlife crisis is a time in a person's life where he is hit with a jangling, unavoidable reflection of his life and its direction, then I've been in such a crisis since my preteens. I've been trapped in a pulsating, recurring loop of myopic introspection, complete with gaping blind spots, for years. I've always been had this sensation of rudderless self-doubt, and I suspect I always will. My friend Joe would likely decide that I have a lesson to learn about certainty, or confidence or some shit. It's as good an explanation as any I have thus far.

The good news is that my wife and employer can expect that I won't thrash about in a sudden, flailing attempt to right my leaky, wandering vessel and change its heading on the ocean of my life, especially by taking up abruptly with some skank or buying a Corvette (not that my credit would allow it anyway). It's just not in me.

The bad news is that I certainly will thrash about, reliably and often, with moderate, less-frightening but still-moderately-bizarre decisions like doing stand up comedy when I have the chance (and enthusiastically seeking out more of those chances), and keep a vigilant vigil for a lifetime pursuit that feels right and true and rewarding. That is most definitely within me. Lots of people can happily watch television for years on end and not feel like they're missing anything. Although I have a lot in common with those folks, I can't quite escape the nagging feeling that something truly fantastic is whistling quietly by, and that if I don't snap out of it I'll wake up at the end of a very steady, boring ride to discover that I've slept through the best parts. It's a very petulant, fearful feeling, but that's usually the only thing that will motivate me, so I guess it's as good as anything.

The above paragraph is a fair description of midlife crisis as I understand it, but it's always been there. The only difference today from when I was twelve is that I'm not getting any taller or thinner, and the bottom of my hourglass is getting noticeably fuller and it makes me sweaty thinking about it. Maybe this is just splitting hairs so that I can still feel set apart from the other cattle, but it's a distinct enough distinction that I feel it's worth noting.