The irony is that the only fear I have
about getting older is the thought of going through a mid-life crisis… which is kind of
a mid-life crisis in itself.
It shouldn’t worry me, as I’ve not really grown up all that much. I’ve done grown up things like get married, invested on the stock exchange and even set up a pension scheme. But there are parts of me that belong to my thirteen-year-old self. I’m partial to a Batman graphic novel now and again, I bought Ed Sheeran’s album, and at the moment I’m reading ‘Magician’ by Raymond Feist which is kind of a kid’s book.
The type of crisis I’m talking about (and it only seems to happen to men) is the one where you buy a sports car and start wearing your trousers two metres below your arse.
Not that I could afford a sports car.
And I’m probably too frightened that my belt buckle could catch my knob excruciatingly.
The mid-life crisis is a protean beast. Like the Christian Devil it can take myriad forms. Sometimes it is obvious, but more often it is subtle.
The obvious signs are trading in the silver Lexus for a red Mazda convertible, and trading in the greying missus for twenty-two-year-old golden-haired digger.
The subtle signs are, well, a bit more subtle. I know a guy who one day woke up and started wearing a funky hat. I know another guy who bought a skateboard at 32. My wife’s dad went through a stage of attending raves. You remember raves, right? Dance move classics like ‘TheSprinkler’, annoying whistles, glow sticks, future embarrassment.
The crisis creeps in when you least expect it. Just before it sloths up behind you and attaches itself to your brain you might be confident and secure. You might think you’ve got the world and your place in it sussed.
The MLC is a banana peel lying innocently on the pavement until you step into it.
It starts when you’re in the company of guys younger than yourself and you quickly realise they don’t get any of your pop culture references. It’s not so bad if the age gap is under a decade because some stuff you say might be ‘old school’ and kinda cool.
But it really makes you feel like a geriatric when they don’t know who Quentin Tarantino is, have never seen the Matrix, and tell you their dad sometimes listens to AC/DC.
If you’re likely to see them again you might try to bone up on some new stuff. You’ll catch an episode of TOWIE and buy a Jessie J cd. But the MLC sets in even more when you realise reality tv is shite and Jessie J just meaningless noise.
You know that if you tell them this they’ll just roll their eyes and think “okay, grandpa” so you either pretend to like it or try and convince them A-ha is real music and Bill Murray a comic genius.
Both approaches will get you nowhere.
The only way to combat MLC is through awareness. You must know that it is looming. You must be wary of the signs.
You must accept that one day you will die, but before that happens you will be shown just how disposable and irrelevant your life is.
But like Tyler Durden says, “It could be worse. A woman could cut off your penis and throw it out the window of a moving car.”
I suppose there is that.
It shouldn’t worry me, as I’ve not really grown up all that much. I’ve done grown up things like get married, invested on the stock exchange and even set up a pension scheme. But there are parts of me that belong to my thirteen-year-old self. I’m partial to a Batman graphic novel now and again, I bought Ed Sheeran’s album, and at the moment I’m reading ‘Magician’ by Raymond Feist which is kind of a kid’s book.
The type of crisis I’m talking about (and it only seems to happen to men) is the one where you buy a sports car and start wearing your trousers two metres below your arse.
Not that I could afford a sports car.
And I’m probably too frightened that my belt buckle could catch my knob excruciatingly.
The mid-life crisis is a protean beast. Like the Christian Devil it can take myriad forms. Sometimes it is obvious, but more often it is subtle.
The obvious signs are trading in the silver Lexus for a red Mazda convertible, and trading in the greying missus for twenty-two-year-old golden-haired digger.
The subtle signs are, well, a bit more subtle. I know a guy who one day woke up and started wearing a funky hat. I know another guy who bought a skateboard at 32. My wife’s dad went through a stage of attending raves. You remember raves, right? Dance move classics like ‘TheSprinkler’, annoying whistles, glow sticks, future embarrassment.
The crisis creeps in when you least expect it. Just before it sloths up behind you and attaches itself to your brain you might be confident and secure. You might think you’ve got the world and your place in it sussed.
The MLC is a banana peel lying innocently on the pavement until you step into it.
It starts when you’re in the company of guys younger than yourself and you quickly realise they don’t get any of your pop culture references. It’s not so bad if the age gap is under a decade because some stuff you say might be ‘old school’ and kinda cool.
But it really makes you feel like a geriatric when they don’t know who Quentin Tarantino is, have never seen the Matrix, and tell you their dad sometimes listens to AC/DC.
If you’re likely to see them again you might try to bone up on some new stuff. You’ll catch an episode of TOWIE and buy a Jessie J cd. But the MLC sets in even more when you realise reality tv is shite and Jessie J just meaningless noise.
You know that if you tell them this they’ll just roll their eyes and think “okay, grandpa” so you either pretend to like it or try and convince them A-ha is real music and Bill Murray a comic genius.
Both approaches will get you nowhere.
The only way to combat MLC is through awareness. You must know that it is looming. You must be wary of the signs.
You must accept that one day you will die, but before that happens you will be shown just how disposable and irrelevant your life is.
But like Tyler Durden says, “It could be worse. A woman could cut off your penis and throw it out the window of a moving car.”
I suppose there is that.
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