Stuck In The Middle of Life

(From the Janesville Messenger, 1-21-07)


Maybe it was the bifocals that triggered it. Or perhaps the upcoming birthday placing me solidly in Mid-Forties Land. Or the fact that I no longer recognize a single musical act listed in Billboard’s Top 10. But whatever started it, my name is Jim and I’m having a mid-life crisis.

I’m exhibiting two outward symptoms of the disease. One is that my hair has gotten distinctly longer, resembling the length and style I wore during my senior year of college. Still, that’s preferable to the ’do from my earlier years of college, when I sported a permed afro that would have made Billy Preston proud.

I’m not growing it out for purposes of a bad comb-over; fortunately, I’m showing no signs of hair loss. Unfortunately, the longer strands make my increasing number of gray hairs more obvious.

A couple of years ago, I grew a goatee only to discover that the hairs on my chinny chin chin were white. Coupled with my black moustache, I was the facial equivalent of a skunk. I combated that situation with a weekly application of Just For Men. When that routine got old, I opted for a more practical solution – a razor. At any rate, I’m now getting more comfortable with my lightening mane. There’s a part of me that thinks looking like Mark Twain in 20 years wouldn’t be such a bad thing.

The other symptom is my latest car. For 11 years, I have driven a 1995 Geo Prizm. It’s a little humbling driving a car whose make - not just the model, but the entire nameplate - went extinct a decade ago. It must be how AMC drivers felt in the 1990’s. Don’t get me wrong; the Prizm has been a great car - practical and reliable, paid-for and trouble-free. But when I spied a beautiful black Audi A4 Quattro at a used car lot at a price I could afford, I was smitten.

My wife, the sane half of the family, questioned the logic of exchanging a paid-off, reliable set of wheels for this toy packed with more options than a college football game. However, I was ready; I had done my research on everything about the A4, including gas mileage, reliability, recall history, and insurance costs. When my rational arguments didn’t immediately close the deal, I resorted to my desperation pitch: “I’m at the age where guys either get a sporty car or a young mistress. Let me have the car.” It may have been the biggest humor misfire since John Kerry’s botched joke last fall. When the dust settled, however, I still somehow managed to win her extremely tentative consent.

So you may see me drive by this spring with the moon roof open and my hair flying in the wind. Meanwhile, a barber and an unsold Prizm wait for my senses to return.