Another Midlife Crisis
By Leonard Wibberley
First Published November 12, 1981
10/6/2022
I passed my midlife crisis the other day and, now that it’s gone, I feel a little sad about it—and hope I’m going to have another one next week.
You know the symptoms, I am sure.
They have been described in every family magazine in the land: your appetite disappears. You review your life and discover that you have failed miserably in all your endeavors.
You decide that you should throw up everything and become a mountain climber or go to Paris (Left Bank) and write poetry, which is more difficult.
You… well, let me tell you what happened.
I awoke that day at eight in the morning and got out of bed. I felt immediately dizzy and had a series of hot-and-cold flushes which were actually quite enjoyable, though I liked the hot ones better than the cold ones.
I went right back to bed and did not arise again until 10 or 10:30. Same hot and cold flushes, only this time more pronounced. Into the bathroom then to look in the mirror.
I looked at my face. My face? It couldn’t be my face. It was a wrinkled old face that had been sat upon not by the years but by the centuries.
The eyes were pale blue stones lacking even a glint of life. The beard looked like something picked up off the floor of a mattress factory. The nose had a distinct list to starboard.
“I’m old,” I groaned. “I’m old.” (I said it twice because the first time didn’t sound tragic enough—it lacked the Lear touch.)
Down then to get breakfast—two poached eggs on toast. The eggs were tasteless even when I put salt on them, which I am not supposed to do.
“You’re a worthless, wheezing old man whose only function in life is to exterminate all the hens in the world by eating their eggs,” I said.
“If you’d stop smoking, you’d wheeze less,” my wife said.
“If I’d stop smoking my withered lungs would fall into tatters, for it is only the tar and the nicotine which are keeping them together,” I replied.
I continued on. “I’ve failed in everything I’ve done—wasted my whole life. I need a complete change. Something entirely new. Do we have the address of Hallmark Cards?”
“Why?”
“I was thinking of going to Paris (Left Bank), away from everything I know and writing poetry,” I said. “I told you. I need a complete change. Maybe I’ll go to Arles and paint. Do you know anything about climbing Mount Everest? You know those funny little bags made of knotted strings? I’ve been thinking about them.”
Silence and a look of quiet wonder.
“Heavens,” I cried. “Don’t you realize what’s happening to me? I’m having my midlife crisis.”
“You had one last week,” said Hazel, and went into the kitchen with the dishes.
“I did not have one last week,” I shouted after her. “I had a cold last week. This is the real thing. A cold wind whimpers through the worn fabric of my soul. Living, I am dead. Dead, I am still alive. I’m going to shave off my beard.”
I didn’t shave off my beard because I couldn’t find a razor anywhere. But I did walk to the post office by a different route. And I deliberately left my wretched little white pills behind.
On the way I decided that in my new life I should have a coat of arms. A lion argent on a field gules, rampant et regardant.
It would be tattooed on my chest—a conversation piece for those Left Bank parties where the air is thick with tobacco smoke, and the carpets damp with absinthe.
There would be an older, gray-haired, handsome woman, a countess, deeply interested in every word I said.
I could see her face. I recognized it immediately. I passed a telephone booth and called home.
“Countess,” I said. “Let’s drive up to Malibu for lunch. There’s a place where they serve calvados and there is a dirty Turkish carpet on the floor.”
“I’d love to,” Hazel breathed.
My midlife crisis was over. Here’s to the next.
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