middle age – bendingtheneedle

Fumble-Fucked and Broken

A loud quiet settles in the kitchen.

The morning sun finds its way through crowds of whispering pines and stoic oaks before crashing onto the skylight, splashing the inhabitants below in ghostly shadows of needles and oakleaf.

Peering over his coffee cup, he clears his throat – brushing aside the silence.

“We don’t fuck in the shower anymore.”

He takes a sip.

She raises an eyebrow, but not her eyes, working her butter knife methodically, like a skilled artisan, covering every nook and cranny of a slightly burnt English muffin.

A second passes.

“Fuck in the shower?” she scoffs incredulously, “Hell, I’d settle for a dry hump in the driveway.”

“Hmm. Interesting.” He takes another sip and studies his wife across the table. “Still pretty without makeup,” he thinks to himself.

Lifting her head, she takes a bite and shoots him a toothless smile, which he returns instantly (with a wink) before heading to the sink with his coffee cup.

“So,” he says, “What’s the plan today?”

She floats across the kitchen floor, meeting him at the sink, “I’m thinking of going to Mom’s to help in the yard.”

“After that, I’m free as a bird.”

“Maybe we can shower then?”

Standing directly behind him, she places her hand lightly on his lower back and slides her plate onto the kitchen counter before walking away.

He marvels at how she’s kept her figure. With his hand on his belly, he begins to second-guess his shower comment.

It’s their anniversary.

“By the way,” she says over her shoulder. “We’ve only done that like twice – maybe 3 times – in 30 years of marriage.”

He detects a hint of disappointment, and that famous quote from Cool Hand Luke, “What we’ve got here is failure to communicate,” plays on a loop in his head.

He wonders momentarily how many shower opportunities he’s missed out on.

The space between them has grown exponentially since the kids left, and lately, he wonders if it’s even navigable.

The kids were a bridge.

Now, the person he fell in love with is this spotty, blurry-edged figure on a distant shore, and he’s pretty sure that’s how he appears to her as well — spotty and distant, lost in his coffee, fantasizing about fucking in the shower.

In a strained and slightly desperate tone he pushes his words towards her “Strange how time clouds our perception of reality,” as if words can fix what feels irrevocably broken.

“Are any of the tickets for a person 60 or older?”

The words made their way from the lips of the lady behind the ticket counter into my slightly hard-of-hearing ears.

I hesitated to answer.

Of course, I knew the answer, but I think I was shocked at being asked.

After a few seconds, I said, “Yes, as a matter of fact. Two of us are.”

And voila, my first senior discount transaction was complete.

It happened at a Showcase Cinema in Seekonk, Massachusetts, for the movie Dumb Money (which I highly recommend).

For me, it was the first time being asked publicly about my age — it was a bit trippy – and so, for a few seconds, I was a little foggy on how to respond – because, in that instance, I was forced to reconcile that regardless of how I feel or how I envision myself, in the objective eyes of others, I’m old.

I don’t see a senior discount when I look at myself in the mirror.

I don’t hear senior discount when I pump up the volume of my 90’s gunge playlist and dance around the kitchen to Nirvana and Everclear.

I guess that’s why I hesitated when asked the question.

Now I’m wondering – with my first senior discount under my belt, will I start to feel my age?

Will I begin to understand the feeling pulsing through my veins when Smells Like Teen Spirit blasts through my headphones is a hoax – a mindfuck?

Is asking about senior discounts just around the corner for me?

God, I hope not.

But one thing is certain: aging is like the Borg; resistance is futile.

Seventeen Summers

For me

if you believe in averages

Seventeen Summers

is all that remains

Less Summers than

fingers and toes

With sixty Summers

in the rear view

the road in front of you

feels a lot shorter,

your hearing begins to fade

but your breathing

becomes more audible

and you can’t shake free

from the loose and crinkly

skin on your neck

When you say out loud

“Seventeen Summers”

the finite nature of it

settles in

and Ms. Mortality

with her toothy grin

and dead eyes

waves at you

from the shore

With only

Seventeen Summers left

dilly-dallying

feels like a crime

and reminiscing

seems irresponsible

I should be wringing

every ounce of life

out of every minute

of every day

of my Seventeen Summers

because

the last thing you want to feel

in your Seventeenth Autumn

is regret

Middle-Aged Joe

Today, at 55 years old, Joe realizes the rest of his tomorrows will never be as bright as most of his yesterdays.

That epiphany catches him off guard.

The immediacy of it throws him off kilter.

It wasn’t long ago that Joe felt relevant, steady, and somewhat optimistic about life, the world, and his place in it.

Now he flounders.

He’s a floundering Joe.

A man-fish swimming against the steady current of uncertainty.

“How did I not see this coming?” he mutters.

Moderately well-off, Joe is considered successful — especially in America, where success is measured by the home you own, the car you drive, and the stuff you have.

In America, materialism and success are inextricable.

So, why does middle age feel like an existential threat to Joe?

Why (with his level of success) is Joe suddenly riddled with insecurities?

Crisis set up shop in Joe’s head when he realized that success, as defined by society, is different from success as defined by biology and (more specifically) virility.

Virility provided a competitive advantage early in man’s evolution. It was sought after by the opposite sex and went hand-in-hand with male success. And though virility and success are not as tightly coupled today, the embers of that dynamic duo still smolder at the core of the male brain.

Virility improved the success rate of man’s biological directive to mate. That type of biologically controlled messaging is difficult to override — even in man’s evolved state. Because of this, something strange happens to men sociologically when they sense a decline in their virility.

It’s not that Joe feels less virile. It’s more of an awareness of how others perceive him — or how others barely notice him at all.

Gone are the days of side glances from attractive strangers.

A waning biological relevance makes Joe feel like he’s disappearing – like he’s being involuntarily airbrushed into the landscape – a crooked aging tree at the base of a mountain – an artist’s afterthought.

In the face of this involuntary disappearing act, Joe becomes desperate. He knows he can’t un-tick the clock, but he has access to cash.

They say money can’t buy happiness — but it can get you noticed.

And so, Joe begins the age-old American dance (often pathetic, rarely successful) of reclaiming virility through materialism – by heading to the local Chevy dealership and purchasing a brand-new ego booster.

At first, he feels pretty good about himself – heads are turning on the boulevard!

But the feeling is short-lived.

Over time, squeezing in and out of his little red Corvette doesn’t turn back the clock; it just reminds Joe of the uncomfortable logistics of aging.

Joe parks the car in his garage and rarely takes it out.

“Maybe it’s my style? Maybe I don’t have any style?” Joe says to himself in the mirror.

So, he treks to the mall, platinum card in hand, and treats himself to a hip new wardrobe of skinny jeans and UNTUCKit shirts, disregarding the well-known truth — that clothes always look better on the mannequin and catalog model.

Joe’s clothes no longer hang on him fashionably. Instead, they bring unwanted attention to what he’s desperately trying to hide.

And what makes Joe think he can pull off the skinny jeans’ thing like he’s Mick Jagger?

The audacity!

The one thing that makes Joe feel better is hitting the gym and changing his diet.

He isn’t turning any heads huffing and puffing on the Stairmaster, but he’s lost a little weight, and his mood is lighter. Even though he considers this a minor victory, he knows there’s no stopping father time from fucking with him.

Life is a conveyor belt.

As Joe transitions from middle age, he realizes acceptance is his only play.

Acceptance leads to tranquility, which leads to confidence, and confidence is like a fine wine – it ages well.

Middle-aged Man Buys First Condo He Sees

“Sandi Beaches, nice to meet you.”

Across from you stands 5-feet seven inches of sunshine, splendidly packaged in twinkly eyes on a lightly freckled face, each freckle perfectly placed by one of God’s angels.

“Nice to meet you, Sandi,” you suck in your gut and shake her hand.

She turns and walks ahead, her hair bouncing playfully on tanned and toned shoulders as you stroll towards the front door of an overpriced, undersized 2-bedroom condo.

You struggle to not let your gaze drift southward.

Newly divorced, you’re looking for your own place for the first time in 30 years – “A fresh start,” you tell yourself, and Sandi’s listing seems to
fit the bill — at least on paper.

At 60, you’re done mowing lawns; your achy knees are a weekly testament to that. You’ve convinced yourself a monthly HOA is a small price to free you from that discomfort.

As you enter the condo, Sandi begins her pitch:

“In addition to the living area, we have 2 bedrooms (one with an ensuite) and a lovely eat-in kitchen leading to a cheery patio overlooking the backyard.”

Sandi’s lilting voice bounces softly off the walls of the empty condo, mixing with her perfume to form an intoxicating blend of scent and sound that hangs in the air for you to absorb.

You quietly inhale.

Ballerina-like, she spins and says, “feel free to walk about,” then heads onto the patio, taking out her phone and sitting down in one graceful motion.

You realize you’re barely a blip to her. A soon to be forgotten notation on her calendar.

You sigh.

This unexpected encounter with youthful exuberance brings a heightened awareness to your current station in life. It wasn’t that long ago when purpose and promise filled your days. Now, in the full grip of a midlife crisis, you grasp for what’s no longer there.

Your situation hits you like a two-by-four to the back of the head. You tour the unit numbly; you feel yourself move from room to room, seeing it all but noticing nothing.

You walk towards the patio where Sandi sits in the sun. “I’ll take it,” you say, not because you want it, but just to see her turn towards you and smile.