Leaderboard

Not long ago I was getting into my Boxster and parked next to it was a minivan with a family still inside. I got in it, started the car and put the top down in it’s little technological show of engineering. “That’s so sick,” said the goth teenage girl who watched along side her dad. Her dad said to me, “So, is that your midlife crisis?” I tried not to be indignant. “Do I look like I’m having a crisis?” and I pulled out and away. Not me. I’m different. What I feel is different. Who I am, what I believe, what I value is different and that qualifies me to promote Dos Equis, not suffer some crisis of identity or happiness. I’m grounded, can’t you tell by my vanity plate? A failure in perception, in judgement, in sense is enough to set me back and bring me down many notches, confirming what my gut has been whispering all along; you’re not good enough, smart enough, handsome enough, faking it all along until you set yourself up to some litmus test of character that confirms all those suspicions. And that, I believe, by definition must be what is meant by midlife crisis. I’m not superhuman after all.