Blogs Are Stupid

Doesn't anyone believe in Dear Diary anymore? What happened to the joy of putting actual pen to paper? And why does every ordinary Jane and John think they can write well enough to burden the world with their scribblings? It’s a mystery that badly needs solving. My first entry contains my thoughts about blogging and will set your expectations. The rest will probably be stream of consciousness garbage, much like you’ll find on any other blog. Perhaps we will both come away enlightened.

Friday, June 23, 2006


"Mid-Life Crisis"

Webster's Defines Mid Life Crisis as "a period of psychological doubt and anxiety that some people experience in middle age."

In my callous, ego-centric and myopic youth, I often chuckled derisively at the sight of a balding fiftiesh man nattily attired and driving a red hot muscle car down the ineterstate with the top down, heedless of his comb-over flapping comically in the wind; a banner proclaiming his dotage to the world. "Get a Life, Grandpa" I would mutter, more shaken than I cared to admit at the glaring reminder that youth is fleeting and mortality looms. I have death issues, you see.

If I had looked more closely, with more experienced eyes, and without the self absorption that is the hallmark of youth, I would have seen his smile of utter contentment and confident indifference. I would have seen someone high on life, and quite clearly not searching for his lost identity or mourning his misspent youth, but rather, enjoying the just rewards for a life of hard work and sacrifice.

In other words...that car is not a metaphor for anything other than the fact that for the first time in his life, he can afford the toys he has always dreamed of. He has no children bleeding him dry, his mortgage is paid, and his nest nicely feathered. He has the cash to buy what he wants, and he has the cahones to drive it with no excuses or apologies.

As I edge ever closer to forty, a prospect that would once have had me curled up in the fetal position with my thumb in my mouth, clutching a jar of Creme de La Mer to my weatherbeaten breast, I realize that it isn't middle age that's a time of crisis. On the I get older, the easier things become. If I am honest I have to admit that while I certainly don't relish the thought of growing old, nor would I voluntarily return to those years of twenty something angst and uncertainty.

Its been a long time since I had to survive on condiment sandwiches and kool-aid until payday. Or wonder if that guy I'm seeing is going to disappear like a fart in the wind exactly 3 seconds after copulation. Or ponder why my new infant takes more comfort from the roar of the vacuum than the beat of his mother's heart, and why that feels like my fault. Undoubtedly, such tribulation built my character and forged me into the adult I am today, for which I am duly grateful.

But.....I'm kinda liking where I'm at. And I most assuredly am not experiencing any psychological doubt beyond whether I really have the butt for low rise boot cut jeans.

For that reason, I am submitting the following for the kind people at Webster's:

Dear Sirs:

I submit that the term "Mid-Life Crisis" is an egregious and misleading misnomer. I would like to respectfully request that it be revised as follows:

"Mid-life Respite"

I introduce the following visual aid to illustrate my point. Dude looks pretty happy to me.

Thank you for your kind consideration of this matter.

Sincerely Yours,
Blog Antagonist; eagerly awaiting Mid-Life Respite

(Dedicated to bloggers compelled to lament ad nauseum about getting old, including yours truly.

"Nobody grows old merely by living a number of years. We grow old by deserting our ideals. Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul." ~Samuel Ullman

Embrace it or repent.)


  • At 7:36 AM, Blogger Masked Mom said…

    Yesterday afternoon, I saw this gorgeous silver Mustang coming toward me--one of the new ones that has all the lines of the old ones, just gorgeous. Behind the wheel was a woman well into her sixties.

    My initial reaction was "Jeez, don't let me cling to my youth like that." Two seconds later, I thought, "Shit, let me do exactly that!" The woman was clearly thrilled with her ride and didn't give even the tiniest crap what anyone thought. It was inspirational!

  • At 12:30 PM, Blogger Mom101 said…

    I love midlife respite!

    And I love creme de mer. But I gotta say, spend some time in LA. Plenty of forty/fifty-something men there compensating for other stuff with their zillion dollars sports cars. And their botox. And their trophy wives.

  • At 8:03 PM, Blogger Jaelithe said…

    I am liking this idea, from my viewpoint 15 years 'til 40.

    Whenever I find myself lamenting my lost pre-baby freedom, I try to remind myself that when I'm in my forties I will be free, free, free, and still young and healthy enough to enjoy it, while most of my currently childless friends will be trying to chase toddlers on newly arthritic knees.

  • At 8:29 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said…

    BA, I was JUST thinking about the unfairness of that stereotype. My father bought himself a Boxster - used, but still... - and I am ridiculously happy for him. He has worked so hard for so many years, truly deserves a toy, and I rarely see him do anything just for himself. When he told me, I couldn't stop saying, "Good for you!" and I meant it every time.

    I've wanted a Mercedes convertible since my age was still in single digits, and someday...SOMEDAY, I will get one. And I won't care what anyone thinks either.

  • At 9:46 PM, Blogger Sandra said…

    Midlife Respite...yes. I like that much better.

    Liking where your at in life is a very empowering place to be. Whatever that looks like ... whether it be in a muscle car or just in a quiet confidence.

  • At 10:50 AM, Blogger Ruth Dynamite said…

    Good thing I declared by mid-life crisis over a week or so ago!

    Can I embrace it and repent?

  • At 1:43 PM, Blogger Blog Antagonist said…

    Lucky You! You are hereby absolved of the sins of your youth. No further repentance necessary.


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