Tag Archives: midlife crisis

Middle-Aged Joe

Today, at 55 years old, Joe realizes the rest of his tomorrows will never be as good 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 practically inseparable. 

So, why does middle age feel like an existential threat to Joe? Why (with all his success) is he suddenly riddled with insecurities? 

Joe’s crisis set up shop in his head when he started to understand (subconsciously) that success, as defined by society, is different from success as defined by biology and (more specifically) virility.

Virility’s relationship with success is forged by millions of years of evolution, so that shit is hardwired into the male brain. And at 55, Joe’s virility is in decline. It’s not that Joe feels less virile or even that he sees a noticeable decline. It’s more about 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. Joe feels like he’s disappearing – like he’s being involuntarily airbrushed into the landscape – a crooked aging tree at the base of a mountain – a depressing reminder of his waning biological relevance. 

In the face of this revelation, Joe leans into what he’s been conditioned to believe, that success is the stuff you own, the way you look, and the things you can afford. He knows he can’t un-tic the clock, but Joe has access to cash — lots and lots of cash.

So, Joe heads to the Chevy dealership downtown and purchases a shiny new sportscar. At first, he feels pretty good about himself. But the ego-boost is fleeting. 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. A new car doesn’t equate to a younger you, especially if you audibly struggle when getting in and out of it.  “Umph!”

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.

Joe treks off to the mall, platinum card in hand, and treats himself to a hip new wardrobe of skinny jeans and UNTUCKit shirts, somehow disregarding the obvious — that clothes always look better on the mannequin and catalog model (because neither have pot bellies or man-boobs).  Joe’s clothes no longer hang on him in a fashionable way. 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 a little better is hitting the gym and changing his diet. He knows 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 begins to age-out of middle age, he decides that acceptance is the only play when it comes to aging. Acceptance leads to tranquility, which leads to confidence.

And confidence ages well.

At Sixty

“I know I could do this if things would just slow-the-fuck down,” he muttered. Head bowed, sitting at a dimly lit kitchen table, teetering on the edge of a midlife meltdown.

With more than 30 years in the industry, you think he’d be brimming with confidence. For most, that kind of experience leads naturally to calm assuredness. But with experience comes expectations, and those expectations smother him like a blanket of boulders.

He feels incapacitated by his experience, not buoyed by it.

He fixates momentarily on his wife’s furrowed brow and imagines himself tiny, wandering through those deep valleys of disappointment.

At work, he’s surrounded by the young and hungry. Buzzing with ambition, their bright voices float on currents of frenetic energy.

Was he ever that exuberant (about anything)? He struggles to remember his younger self, but it’s like painting with numbers without the numbers.

In his cubicle, yellow sticky notes pop off the edge of his monitor. A sleek uninviting flower, daring him to delve in – begging him to fail. Tossed to the corner of the desk, a coffee-stained and panic-scrawled legal pad.

His “to-do list.”

After a full day’s work, that list somehow gets longer, not shorter.

Early in his career, he’d slide into a work groove and rip through his “to-dos” effortlessly, like a sickle through the wheat. But nowadays, he’s easily and willingly distracted. His ability to focus comes in short bursts only, and the mental elasticity of youth is frustratingly absent.

His focus is hampered further by a barrage of instant messages and multiple meetings a day. As a result, he always feels two steps behind in a mad dash to a deadline.

He wears his age like an ill-fitting suit, and he struggles to keep pace with his profession.

He lifts his head and speaks again.

“Honestly, I don’t think I can do it anymore. I’m sorry, because I know that puts us behind the eight-ball financially, but every day’s a struggle, and I’m barely keeping my head above water.”

He wasn’t being lazy. He was being honest.

He remembers when success was all the motivation he needed. He remembers plowing through whatever work stress he encountered, because on the backside of that stress were people who depended on him. For 25-plus years, that was all the motivation needed to keep at a job he never truly enjoyed.

Now that his kids are grown and on their own, he faces an increasingly stark scenario.  Deadlines approach, the work pace quickens, his ability to keep up wanes, and the desire and motivation needed to plow through it all has vanished.

He concludes that what’s required of him, and where he is philosophically (at sixty), have diverged irreconcilably. He feels this in his bones and in his gut every morning when he wakes.

And there’s a nagging sense of entitlement, that at this phase of life he’s earned the right to slow down — to take his foot off the gas — to smell the roses. He romanticizes about a job that doesn’t follow him home every night. A job that ends when the day ends and doesn’t occupy his mind ceaselessly.

At sixty, he has no interest in climbing the corporate ladder. Instead, he wants to set it ablaze, sit cross-legged on his cubicle floor, and watch it burn to ash.

At sixty, he has no illusions about discovering job satisfaction. That boat has sailed, and there’s no sense lamenting he never got on it. Instead, he’s looking for balance.

He’s looking for “just enough.”

Just enough to pay his bills and free up some time.

Just enough to sip coffee in solitude, and not worry about work.

At sixty, he sits at a dimly lit kitchen table, looking for a way out.