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Midlife Crisis?

posted Oct 5, 2012, 1:45 PM by H3ATHER S   [ updated Oct 8, 2012, 1:41 PM by Heather S ]

OK, based on the havoc I’ve wrecked on my body, I don’t expect to live past 60. If I’m lucky. So this means that I probably hit my midlife about 10 years ago. Regardless, I think the term is a misnomer. One would think (assume?) that people go through their midlife crises when they are middle-aged, right? And that both should occur smack dab in the middle of one’s life. Are you following me here? If not, please peruse the following:

 The term “midlife” should indicate the MIDdle of your expected LIFEspan.

“Middle-aged” seems to indicate the same general timeframe as “midlife” since when you are at your “middle age” that would seem to also indicate the middle of your expected lifespan.

the middle of your expected life span = midlife =middle aged.

(Ahahahah, see that? I threw in some nerdy-ass shit right there! When was the last time you saw THAT symbol? If your answer is either “never” or “uhhhh…WTF are you talking about?” GET THE FUCK OFF MY BLOG! There’s some shiny shit somewhere that needs starin’ at. GO FIND IT NOW!)

It all makes logical sense, no? As a result, most people should be middle-aged between 35 and 40 and this is when they should start going batshit crazy and contemplating the meaning of life and worrying that they’ve somehow missed the proverbial boat of happiness. Note here, that this is not to be confused with one’s teenage years where you go batshit crazy and start contemplating the meaning of life and worrying that the boat of happiness sank before it ever set sail… I know it sounds exactly the same, but it’s not. For one thing, teenagers as a general rule are assholes. On the other hand, middle-aged adults are… uh… well… OK there IS a difference. Just trust me on this one.

But when you think about someone going through his midlife crisis, what do you think of? Some 50+ year old d00d running after 18 year old chicks, with his shirt unbuttoned down to his navel to showcase his collection of gold chainage nestled in his grey chest-hair dickey, driving a ridiculously fast and expensive extension of his (now completely flaccid) penis. That’s what you think of, right?  And most definitions of middle aged agree, as they define it as: the time in your life right before you become an old-ass fuck. Seriously. That’s what it says. Look it up if you don’t believe me, bitches. Those words EXACTLY!

So what does that mean? Basically it’s the age where you start to feel age creeping up on you, but you’re not yet ancient and decrepit. Generally this is narrowed down to the ages between 45 and 65.

OK, so let’s stop right there. How the hell is 65 “middle aged”??  How many people do you know who live to be 130? How many even make it to 90, for that matter? Basically what I’m saying here is “middle-aged” is a moronic term with regard to what it actually represents. It should be called something like “pre-geezer” or perhaps “ junior crypt keeper”.

Anyway, the point of all of this is that I think I’m going through my midlife crisis right now even though I’ve not yet reached middle age according to the completely fucking illogical definition of it. Actually I think I’ve been going through it for quite some time. But what is making this extremely evident now is that I just got a new job. I know most of you will find this hard to believe, but I’m actually a fairly successful professional. And no, my profession does not include a pole or inspiring people to “make it rain”. Believe me; if it did I would be far far less successful than I am.

At one point in my life, not too long ago, I had aspirations and dreams of climbing my way up the corporate ladder – to the point that I made goals of exactly where I wanted to be at various and sundry ages. I may have even written this down somewhere.

And surprisingly enough, I achieved most of those goals. And all was well and good with the world…

….and then at some point as I began tap tap tapping on that glass ceiling (which does still exist by the way, and don’t let anyone fool you into believing otherwise, though I can’t say necessarily that I’ve been a victim of it per se) I stopped giving a fuck.

Now this is not to say that I stopped giving a fuck about my job (though I can’t lie – I’ve had a few gigs where a flying fuck was not given by yours truly). I just stopped giving a fuck about my career growth in general.

So in case you haven’t surmised this yet, I’m in the software business. At one point in my young career, I could find satisfaction in the most boring mundane shit. Oooooooooo software for calculating paint drying time! How scintillating and rewarding! But I’m sad to say that such bright-eyed, bushy-tailed-ness is short lived. At least it was for me. And as I became better at what I did, it became harder and harder to hold my interest. Systems for launching large-scale, nuclear-hardened, cyborg attacks in a post-apocalyptic, zombie-infested world? Yawn. What else you got?

Luckily during the time when my interested in my career started to wane, I found a job building software relating to one of my great loves: sports. Yes, I’m a chick who likes sports. I also like beer and action movies. No, I’m not a lesbian… well except for that one time back in… but I was young and… eh, nobody wants to hear that story, right? Interestingly, my current main squeeze isn’t much of a sports fan. He doesn’t *hate* sports (except basketball – he does actually hate that particular sport), but other than liking to go to the random ball game here or there he finds watching sports completely unnecessary and (!!) somewhat boring. And so, we spend a lot of our quality time sitting on the couch while I watch sports he surfs the web on his phone. Match made in heaven, that one, eh?

Anyway, the sports software gig ended and so I found myself in need of a job. At this point, I contemplated becoming one of Romney’s 47%. I mean, I’ve gotten raped by taxes for a good long while now. I don’t have kids to edumacate. I’m never going to see social security – even if it’s magically still around for a few more decades, as I mentioned above, I’m not expecting to live that long. It’s high time I get my turn to suck off old mother-government’s teat for a while, am I right?

Unfortunately that wasn’t a viable plan. As it turns out, our social programs don’t really pay out enough to fund overpriced German cars and obscenely large McMansions and apparently most fine dining establishments don’t accept food stamps (CRAZY, I know!).

That being said, I was forced to go out and find a new job. During this exhausting (woe is me), pavement-pounding job search, I quickly learned that an apathetic attitude really puts a strain on one’s ability to find decent employment and (see! look how I snuck that shiz back in?!) I also found out that I can be a pretty decent actress. I may not be Oscar-caliber, but I can pretend the shit out of caring with the best of ‘em.

And so after many many* interviews and many many* companies, I persevered and obtained gainful employment. Not only that, I was able to negotiate more than what I was making before. How’s THAT for acting like I care?

But now here’s the dilemma. And here’s where that whole mid-life crisis thing fits in….

Whenever I started previous jobs, I was stoked. I was all about getting in there and proving myself so that I could hopefully advance up the food chain. I was eager. I was motivated. I was raring to go!

Fast forward to today.

...well, I’ve been here for a couple of weeks. I’ve done the stuff that I know I need to do.  I’ve walked through all the motions of being a good new employee. But quite honestly: on a scale of 1-10, my motivation level is a negative gazillion.

More than that, I find myself thinking about selling the car and the house and just packing it in. Maybe I could get some sort of mindless job somewhere. I think janitorial services would best suit me, save for the fact that I generally live in filth until I just can’t stand it because I hate cleaning. But I need a job where I don’t have to deal with people. If I were a janitor, I could even pretend that I couldn’t speak English. How glorious would it be if I didn’t have to talk to ANYONE at my job? Fucking amazingly glorious. That’s how glorious.

Or maybe I could just sell the car and the house, pack it in and live off the state for a while…

….well, maybe I’d keep the car.

*3, possibly 4