Oh Crisis, Where Are You?

I’m about to turn 40.  Yikes!

Common lore, along with a union of marketing-savvy psychiatrists looking for another well-insured couch guest, suggest that I should fear a midlife crisis in the near future. So, I’m monitoring for warning signs.  In particular, I’m worried about Grecian Formula billboards and PTO bingo night announcement posters.  

In preparation for this inevitable collapse of my prime, I’m also avoiding the typical midlife crisis trouble spots.  For example, the Chevy dealer with that 2013 Rally Yellow, 580-horsepower Camaro SS is off limits (unless, maybe the car seats fit in the back, hmmm...).  Clothes shopping for skinny jeans at Forever 21 - probably not a good idea either.  

Another trouble spot, but for a different reason, is the local liquor store.  Recently picking up a six-pack of a seasonal Kölsch, I wondered how long it had been since I was asked for identification.  Then, something even worse happened.  The dreaded s-word.  Yup, the cheerful 20-something cashier asked me if I wanted a bag with my purchase... “sir.”  Ugh.  Sir.  She’s clearly a crisis enabler.    

Bummed, I figured I needed a midlife crisis mission.  When I realized that Tony Hawk is five years my elder, I thought if he can do it, maybe I should take up skateboarding.  But after some thought, here’s how I figured it would go:  Stoked, I don a pair of baggy shorts, a rad pair of DC sneakers, a faded Primus t-shirt, and go to the local skate park.  There, in the midst of slack-jawed whippersnappers half my age, I pull off a sweet tre flip followed by a darkside rail grind.  Then, I pull my back.  And a calf muscle.  Finally, I pull myself out of there and climb into my Barbie toy-strewn Honda Pilot and fire up the heated seat.    

Supposedly, I should also be cognizant of sudden career swing urges.  But, I’m a professional in the environmental consulting field.  It’s a solid occupation.  I mean, who wouldn’t want to analyze countless lines of data, write dry technical reports, worry about deadlines, and suck up to clients.  Well okay, maybe a quick peek at the career opportunities section of the Samuel Adams website wouldn’t hurt.   

Later I wondered why one of the major pharmaceuticals has not capitalized on the midlife crisis fear yet.  If I were a chemist, I’d be looking to make a boatload here.  CrisisolTM  - Cage Your Inner Adolescent Punk.  Side effects include loss of 20/20 vision and an insatiable desire for Friday nights at home.  Pick your poison, I guess.  

In actuality though, the major pharmaceuticals are all over the midlife crisis already.  You can’t get through a nine inning ball game without seeing an ad for Rogaine or Viagra (four hours, really?).  But, as my wife likes to remind me, we don’t need Cialis - her name already is Alice.  

So maybe just a midlife crisis coping group would be enough for me. I’m sure one exists. “Hello, my name is Andres and I’m turning 40.  Yesterday I did a keg stand, pierced my left nipple, and got a tattoo of Darth Vader - all while skydiving.”  At break time we could all indulge in a bowl of bran cereal (skim milk, of course).  

The reality is though, the mid-life crisis is for those harboring a material goods obsession and an unhealthy preoccupation with the Hollywood definition of youth.  Me, I’m quite content with my station in life.  The people I have in my life - family, both direct and extended, and friends - are all the crisis intervention I need.  And, I’m fine with my age.  

Yes, there are always self improvements worth chasing.  And maybe there is a man cave in my future where I can pop a Pepcid and relax to Nirvana on the oldies-but-goodies radio station.  

But, I won’t be Florida bound anytime soon - no need to retrace Ponce de León’s footsteps here.