A midlife something

It’s time for a midlife crisis. Actually why not let myself go all out and have a few. Midlife crises. Hell yeah.

Growing up we were taught that only men had them, like a rare man-disease, and that every guy did the same cliche thing, bought a convertible, had an affair, was reckless with his life and his family in order to find a way back to his youth. But to say that only men do this is false. I think men probably just aren’t so good at hiding their crises, partially because society doesn’t punish them if they go off the rails—”he’s a man after all, he can’t help it.” No, women tend to operate differently. Not to say that somewhere in the world every hour a woman doesn’t long to run out of her house to buy that mustang she’s always wanted but not before throwing the laundry at her husband and hiring the best divorce lawyer in town. Some have lurid affairs, others get a new hobby and throw themselves into it. There are so many options and potential combinations.

Overall I think we’re too hard on people. We really do set these impossible standards not only with marriage but just with each other. Of all the schooling we’ve had, not one teacher spends a semester, a class, an hour even and tells us like it is. Life is absurd. The closest thing I got to that was my high school English teacher Mr. Wilson who played a lot of Pink Floyd in class. Trying to be an adult means constant failure, constant mistakes, accidentally hurting people, falling in love with the wrong people—sometimes doing this over and over, using your credit card more than you should, taking that one job that gave you an ulcer, watching people in your life scatter around as they build their own worlds, your parents aging, losing people you love, and on and on. Of course if someone did that in 4th grade we’d probably laugh at them and think they were bitter. “What has life done to them??” we’d think, only to find out decades later that they were right.

I’m only talking about this because this year I’m turning 40. It’s not until August, but the tsunami wave is moving in very slow motion and I’m watching it like that scene in Austin Powers where that CAT flattening machine is inching towards that guy who’s 100 ft away and he has plenty of time to run, even walk, but instead he just stands there with his hand out, screaming and beckoning it to stop until minutes later, it runs him over. Like that.

You know how growing up we all have a scary age? Maybe this is more for women since we’re nagged since birth that if you haven’t had kids by 35 you are doomed to rot in a basement somewhere with all the other hags. My scary age was 40. 40 was SOOOO old. How could I ever even turn 40? Surely I would somehow die before then, on the back of some hot guys motorcycle or bungee jumping in Germany. 40 was located in another galaxy. 40 was only for parents, for wrinkles, for brown polyester and sadness. I was a kid, what did I know.

I can feel 40 coming for me. I feel it approaching so I am here screaming into this newsletter and reveling in whatever this is. In fact I think it’s already here. My friends who are lingering on the edge of 40, either right behind or ahead are feeling the same way. It’s pretty incredible when you think about it actually. As we get about halfway through our lives, it hits us. The delusions vanish. The veil is gone, not even a hint is left and we see it, that marker. Suddenly the end of my life isn’t such a crazy notion, it’s only 20, 30, 40 years away. Though unless I get hit by a bus tomorrow or get cancer or join a doomsday cult and aim for Vega, the chances are that my clock has some time on it yet, but not a ton. So this is where I end up over and over. I think, oh my god I need to be working, I need to be writing, I need to DO ALL THE THINGS but then I get tired from working, or I just want to read and let those books work on me but then I feel guilty. No writer magically makes the thing without sitting down and doing the work. But I keep bumping up against that. Something about the time limit I hate. We all love a good deadline and nothing gets done without one. Death is the best deadline there is. Also the fear of becoming irrelevant, undesired by publishers, etc. It’s funny how at this stage I’m not panicking about finding a partner, or not having children. I’m worried about writing my book. About living the life I want to live. The one where I write and I do that over and over again until I do actually die.

Hopefully somewhere in the middle there’s love and all the beautiful things that make life worth living. But also, why rush? I think my Italian-ness wants me to go slow. Is there anything wrong with that? Or am I self sabatoging because I’m afraid that this will be the most epic failure to date. Or even scarier, that it will be good.

Going over the hill, down the hill, on our way out. Life is a metaphor. If you’ve never read the book Metaphors We Live By, by George Lakoff and Mark Johnson, then you should. It’s really simple how they lay out the nuances of our language. Up is good, down is bad. Things are looking up! What’s got you down? Forward is good, backwards is bad. Onward, forward! You don’t want to look back, forge ahead! It’s truly fascinating to read, you’ll see the world differently once you read it.

So by that measure, going forward, growing older, aging and all the things that come with it, is good. The hilarious poetry of life, is that the older I get, the more I naturally appreciate my life and how I spend my time. This appreciation for living inherently cancels out the urgency to be productive. I want quality in my life, one where art, creativity and fun and love are at the forefront (front = good). It’s when we start to notice and internalize all the small ways we’re chained to the world and its expectations that we start to want to go berserk. Understandably. I just don’t know what kind of life that is. Are we really living? To be honest most days I don’t really know what I consider living to be. It means something different to everyone. I guess it’s easier if we narrow it down to what makes you feel most alive? What brings joy, even sorrow? To feel and experience the full gamut of emotions. To be silly, to give yourself permission to be you. I couldn’t say, that’s the number one side effect of a stage 1 midlife crisis. If I figure it out I’ll let you know.

Honestly, I don’t think I’ll ever figure it out. Or that I’ll want to spend much more time thinking about it. In my 39 years on the Earth so far I think many things can make us feel like we’re really living. So much exists in how we notice the world, and each other. For me sometimes it’s birds singing or the pigeons standing on my air conditioner, starting through my window and watching me, puzzled. Or the way the leaves rustle and make a shimmering sound in the Fall. Or the sound of fresh snow crunching below your feet. Or how a couple sitting on a park bench in the sun lean towards each other for a quick kiss on the cheek, a moment in their own rich universe. Or going to visit telescopes and meeting the people who work on them, or talking to scientists who are so hungry for answers they devote their whole lives to searching. Or the first cup of tea in the morning, or the smell of Coppertone sunscreen, or a random smile from a cashier at the grocery store. Or the thought of a brand new convertible.

S