My husband will turn 50 in June. When I mentioned this at breakfast one morning, Jacob said, “Dad, that means that you’re closer to the day of your death than the day of your birth.” I pointed out that we’re not guaranteed any day, let alone year.
But it did get me thinking. I think that Cal and I should have a mid-life crisis. I’d love a convertible red sports car. Cal and I could argue over who gets to drive it. I think I’m the best driver in the family, and he thinks he is. (The kids say that we’re both horrible West Coast drivers—Los Angeles traffic will do that to you.)
After the car, we could go to Gstaad and learn ski jumping. I’d love to feel like I was flying and sense the wind rushing through my hair.
We’d need new clothes too. My daughter would be thrilled—she thinks I need to be hip. The problem is at this point in my life, I have too much hip to be hip. Cal has a neon blue/yellow Caribbean shirt he could wear, but I don’t think that’s hip either. So we’d both need a new wardrobe.
We’d buy an uber-trendy loft apartment in some refurbished warehouse. And we’d have to trade in Jezebel for a Labradoodle named Bella. (Don’t get me started on the vampyre thing.)
You know, as I look over this list, it seems to me that it’s pretty expensive to have a midlife crisis. Instead, I’ll be content with my minivan (with a possessed electrical system), I can stick my head out the window while Cal’s driving and feel the wind in my hair, my clothes are fine (I can always sew something avant-garde), I love my 1940s bungalow (although I could do without the little fix-it projects), and I could never exchange Jez...and especially not for a Labradoodle.