I’m Just Happy I’ve Got a Glass

This year I turned 44. I never expected to go through a mid-life crisis. Mid-life crises were for other people, less solid in their personal psychology, less firm in their faith, for people who were, well, somehow weaker. What is there to go into crisis about? Life is good. Even when it isn’t, you’re still alive. Right? Life is what you make of it. It’s all a matter of perspective and self control and self motivation. Right? Glass half empty, glass half full. Right?
I am married, 18 years now. I have three kids, 13, 10, and 7 and another on the way. I am doing nothing that I dreamed of doing or thought I might like when I was 18 and preparing for college. I have forgotten so many of the details of those days, many of the events, hopes and dreams, they have passed away like water through a sieve. I admit that my memory is not the best. Brandy remembers details from the past that I couldn’t dredge back up with the help of a hypnotist. I have much greater ‘situational awareness.’
I met my wife when I was 21, married her when I was 26 and we had our first child when I was 31. We wish we had started earlier and had more now, Ah, well. As of last week that wish was granted. Our early years of marriage were a bit rocky, not dangerous like ‘they’re going to rip the bottom out of the boat, captain!”, but more like “this sure is a bumpy road, maybe we should get the shocks checked?” We spent several years just figuring out how selfish we were, what we believed and how we were going to live things out in light of all that. We’ve got it all figured out now. ;) Someone once asked me what God had taught me since my children were born. I’ve thought about it. I don’t know that God was particularly trying to teach me anything specific by my fulfilling my procreative purpose in the world, but I know the primary thing clarified for me was how selfish I was/am. I’m definitely better at being selfless than I was, but my batting average still stinks. If I was a pessimist I’d say three strikes and you’re out of the personal character game. But now the pitcher is winding up for the fourth time.
So, I found myself in a crisis. Simply put, barring injury or illness, this is it – I am middle-aged. I didn’t go out and buy a motorcycle, or a convertible; never even thought about things like that. Seriously, if I was going to blow money on a mid-life crisis, I would probably buy a commercial kitchen. I love my wife and have neither the desire nor the energy to seek a replacement. I would like to accomplish more, do some of the things I dreamt of, but frankly, I don’t really have any regrets about the choices I have made or the place I find myself in. You can read that literally or metaphorically. Take your pick. In the somewhat paraphrased words of my boss, this is not where I thought I would be, but it is where I find myself so I might as well make the best of it.
When I am 60 this child that is on the way will be 15. That’s sobering. My parents have made it to 80 years, plus or minus. Brandy’s parents are younger by about 15 years or so. Neither set of grandparents are in great shape. I don’t want to be in their condition when I am their age. That’s it. That is the crux of my crisis. I want to be strong , healthy, vibrant, active and I am getting a late start. But I am doing it.
Since February I’ve lost 27 pounds by eating right and exercising. I don’t need a pot of coffee and a 20 minute shower to get going in the morning. I actually look forward to exercise now, though I admit that there is something oddly disturbing about that. I feel good, don’t have afternoon slumps anymore, and have more energy for my wife and kids when I get home. My blood pressure is like a high school kid’s now. I’m a different man than I was a year ago. Would I want to be sixteen again? No way. 26 maybe, with the knowledge and experience I have now. That could be cool. To have a chance to not make some of the mistakes I have made, maybe do a few things differently. Water under the bridge. And it’s a paradox anyway. That is why I am who I am. I was talking with a dear friend a couple of months ago and she made a great comment that has stuck with me ever since. It's not youth that's wasted on the young, it's good health.
Don’t waste your mid-life crisis. Life is good.

The grass is always greener...

I woke up today to septic problems. Well, not really. I've known we have septic problems for years now. Our house is old, framed out of wormy chestnut with a black locust foundation. The bathroom was added (hey ma! we can have indoor plumbing!) about 45-50 years ago. It's an old farmhouse...it has character. Character equates to issues. We love it anyway.
However, I still have problems with the septic. And today they became obvious. The short history is this: prior to our family occupying the house in January 1999 I don't think any of the previous occupants ever had the septic tank pumped. Somehow people tend to forget what they can't see directly in front of their face. It’s not a problem until it becomes a problem. Until it backs up in the tub, or fumes them out of the building, it conveniently doesn't exist. So my drain line is failing, from the house to the tank. Maybe my drainfield too. Maybe the pipes have collapsed or cracked. We'll find out as we dig.
Most problems are like this. We notice the potential of them becoming large and expensive, or painful, or deadly, but right now things are still working so we ignore the problem. We assume that things are ‘ok’ and often too late we find out that they are not. Things fall apart people, they never fall together.

Time

Time is the enemy. There is never enough of it. I did a personal evaluation a few months ago and determined that I had approximately 1.7 to 2.3 hours of free time a day. Depending on how much sleep I get. In actuality that ‘free’ time is bundled up on weekends, not parceled out throughout the week. As a practical example of the fact, the four sentences written above were typed 6 days ago. I am just getting back to a point where I can revisit this topic. Now, I am perfectly aware that during the week I, just like most non-type-A personalities, waste a lot of time. My primary problem is that I am incapable of switching from task to task instantaneously. Kind of like the dubious claims of being able to multitask on an old Pentium computer running windows 98. Many of the things I want or need to do need blocks of time; If I have a spare 15 minutes it isn’t really conducive to beginning a remodeling project. Writing is like that. To move into it I need time and a certain level of privacy, something difficult to obtain with 3 children in the house. I appreciate that when I come home there is a certain level of competition to see who gets daddy first and longest. Just like there is a certain appreciation of the competition to see who gets to sit by daddy at church. ‘Move in and sit down! I don’t have three sides! Somebody has to sit at the end!’ Don’t wish it away. The point comes all too soon when they are okay with not sitting by you, or they would prefer to hang with their friends. The day when the small hand does not automatically reach for yours is bittersweet.

Cleaning out the freezer

It’s been a long time since my dreams of being a writer got moved to the back-burner, and eventually to the freezer. I’ve dredged them out a few times and found them a bit freezer burned. I admire people who can write lucidly, systematically, doggedly, daily, either ignoring the daily tasks around, or somehow able to accomplish both. I can’t. It takes time and time is a hot commodity when the house is full of children, there are a multiple odd tasks to be accomplished, and everyone wants a piece of you. That might sound like complaining; on one level it is, but I wouldn’t trade reality for past dreams.
My wife calls me a process person and she is right. She is almost always right. I enjoy the process of creation in everything much more than the finished product. If I don’t have the necessary time to accomplish the process then I will typically forgo the task, or put it off until I do have the time, hence my inability to be a productive writer. I became a baker about 18 years ago. Wait. I didn’t spin a cocoon and emerge with a dusty white apron. I began baking about 18 years ago. I was interested and I got several jobs out of it, some very fun and one that stank. That career path only lasted a few years before I realized that I was never going to be able to support a family, much less myself, unless I owned the bakery. I moved on to other things, but I still bake. I am good at it. My family enjoys the product, but for me the primary pleasure is the process. The process is therapy and allows me to stay sane and to leave the wider world for a smaller one of my own creation. To become as Tolkien would say, a ‘sub-creator.’ But I want to write too. Among many other things. I want to read like I did when I was younger. I want to give myself over to studying many different subjects of personal interest. I want to teach them to others. Most of the other interests and tasks have been in one form or another, substitutes for my oldest and primary desire to write. I have a few young friends who are prolific and talented, and I envy them the time they can spend with pen and paper or keyboard. That’s right, outright jealousy. But, that green eyed monster is not debilitating. In fact, I find it quite catalytic.