Man. I’m such a cliche.
Here I am, 41 years old, and, yes, I’m having a mid-life crisis. Of course, that’s assuming I even make it to 82. For all I know I could die next week in some horrific, farm-machinery accident. Not likely, but possible. And if that’s the case, what I’m going through is actually a really-really-late-in-life crisis. Then again, what if I live to the ripe old age of 120? I mean, with all the advances in medical science and all, who’s to say I won’t? If so, this is just a 0ne-third-life-crisis.
Semantics aside, the point is right now, at this moment, I’m in a some type of crisis.
It’s not a terrible crisis, as crises go. Obviously things could be a lot worse. It’s not like I’m shipwrecked on some deserted island with nothing to eat or drink and no wi-fi. No, my crisis is more of a realization—the realization that the best years of my life, at least physically, are behind me now, and that things are only going to get worse. I’m falling apart over here! Exhibit A: I’ve had a corn on my toe for almost three weeks now. A corn! What’s next? Bursitis? Consumption?
I’ve also realized that, more than likely, who I am today — a freelance writer making just barely enough to afford $8 dollar wine — is probably who I’m going to be well into the foreseeable future, i.e., until I die. Maybe choosing English Lit over Engineering wasn’t the best of choices after all.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not feeling sorry for myself or anything. I’m the only person responsible for getting where I am right now, which is at my desk writing this depressing post, while other people are out at their real jobs making real money. I’m just trying to come to terms with what’s become of my life and then figure out where I should go from here. All I know is for some reason I have this strange, compelling urge to go out and purchase a convertible Corvette, preferably a 1980s-era Stingray, and cruise around town blasting early Motley Crüe. Fortunately, at this point I can’t even afford a convertible Chevette.
I’ve been asking myself a lot of questions lately: Is this really all there is to life? Where should I go from here? Why are all these new hairs sprouting from just about every part of my body? Ah, but many are the mysteries of the universe.
I’ve also been spending a lot of time thinking about how to get through this nonsense. I’ve even thought about maybe going off on an adventure, like maybe to the American Southwest, where I could get a job as a ranch hand, and then spend a few weeks herding steer out on the open prairie. But then I realized I was just thinking about that Billy Crystal movie, “City Slickers.” Man, I’m old.
Now before you get all preachy on me and tell me that I’m not really that old and how lucky I am to have a beautiful wife, and two beautiful, healthy kids; a cozy, charming home in a safe town; and the type of job that gives me the freedom to work out of my home and drink coffee all day while typing nonsense like this…stop. I realize all of this, of course. And I’m truly grateful for all of it. Then again, by this point I was either supposed to be an astronaut or the lead singer of a heavy metal band.
Boy, life is cruel.
Don’t worry about me. I’m sure this is all just a phase that I’ll eventually work my way through. Until then, if I seem a little down or out of sorts the next time you see me, you’ll understand why.
I probably just came from shaving my ear hairs.~
Copyright © 2016 Valentine J. Brkich