Mid-Life Crisis: Reason to Throw Tantrum

Our long national nightmare is almost through. My mid-life crisis is over, and yours will be too, soon.

My crisis took only about 15 years. The swift can whiz through it in about five. Average duration of crisis: 10 years. That leaves you with only another 10 or 20 years of well-adjusted mid-life to endure.

Mid-life begins around thirtysomething and ends around sixtysomething. The good news is, if you stay in crisis for 15 years, the deal is half over before you have to spend the remaining years cowering in pathetic acceptance.

Those attacked by premature baldness or early wrinkles may be plunged into a more serious form of the crisis known as Mid-life Panic. This can lead to compulsive overexercise, compulsive non-selective sex and compulsive hoarding of Rogaine and Retin-A. Others are allowed the luxury of a soft landing, realizing slowly but surely that the cup isn’t half empty--it’s evaporating!

The mid-life crisis usually begins with a checkup at the doctor’s. You feel you are in perfect health. And you are. It’s just that you suddenly realize the doctor is some punk kid. The fact that the doctor is younger than you makes you sick. You can no longer call him Dr. Silverstein. Instead, you say, “Do you know a damn thing about systemic yeast, Sean?”

Then you consult a lawyer. It’s time to make out your will. Or maybe you have a book contract. Or maybe you want to put out a contract on your noisy neighbor. You enter the doors of Sharkey, Sharkey & Goniff. “Mr. Goniff will see you now,” the receptionist says.

There, behind the large desk and in front of all those great big books is a 28-year-old boy in a fancy suit and a paisley tie with a matching handkerchief and, perhaps, if you’d mentally undress him, a matching paisley diaper. “How can we help you, ma’am?” he asks.

“I just wanted to know if mid-life crisis is a valid defense against Murder One,” you ask as you take out Mr. AK and Mr. 47. Standing over his body, you say, “Never call me ‘ma’am’ again.”

Mid-life is a time to reflect on all those young years of fighting. Years of wanting dignity, respect. Don’t treat me like a child! Don’t treat me like a girl! Don’t treat me like a--gulp--sex object!

But how come I still remember that it was exactly five years ago when I was walking down Mission Street in my new red blouse and a guy said, “Hey, mama. You want to have my baby?” How come I suddenly want someone to treat me like a sex object--just one more time?

Maybe we have a hard time with mid-life because of our basic prejudice against the middle of things. Monkey in the Middle is a game about a jerk in the middle trying to steal the ball. Middle-class is often synonymous with conformity, boredom and lack of imagination. We want the first piece of cake, the head of the class, the end of the rainbow, a house on the coast.

The problem is not so much that we’re old but that we’re no longer young. We were “the kids” for so long. We grew up with the worst attitudes toward aging of any generation in history. We were always going to be James Dean. We never wanted to be Jim Backus.

Look at the dramas of middle age. Will I lose my job? Can I stand my job? Will I have enough for the mortgage payment? Will I be able to get a week in Kauai? Can I get my bike up this hill? Can I keep up with myself?

I listen to Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car,” a song about a teenager dreaming of blowing her dreary life and going Somewhere. Then I think about when I was 15 and heard Maria singing to Tony, “There’s a place for us. Somewhere a place for us.”

Well, I got in the fast car 25 years ago, and it slowly led here. Somewhere. Now all I’m supposed to do is make sure that car doesn’t break down.

Finally, I understand what makes some fool leave a perfectly good job, divorce a wonderful spouse or sell a house with a 7% mortgage. But if you weather the storm, you can hold on to all these things and still ride off into that condo at Sunset Village.

You know--pack up your troubles in your new white Porsche and smile, smile, smile.