It's Only Half Begun

“It’s called a Warrior Dash.” I was saying. “Basically, you run a 5K race that includes things like crawling through mud, climbing cargo nets and jumping over fire.”

My co-worker, R., narrowed his eyes and frowned.  “Did you say, jumping over fire?”

“Yea, it sounds like a lot of fun.  Um….., doesn’t it?”  By the look on R’s face, I was starting to doubt my earlier enthusiasm.

“Not really.” He said.  “It actually sounds dangerous.  And kinda pointless. Why do you even want to bother?”

I shrugged my shoulders.  “I don’t know.  Just to prove I can do it I guess.”

“Oh, that explains it.” R replied.  “Your having a midlife crisis.”

A midlife crisis?  Did he say mid-life crisis? Me? I hardly think so. I dismissed the thought.  But for some reason, R's words continued to turn in my mind all day like a sock tumbling helplessly in the rinse cycle. 

Was all of this exercise and good eating just a psychological reaction to reaching the mid-term of my existence?  Was I just becoming another statistic of middle-aged women looking to recapture their youth? Would I be doomed to spending my evenings drinking cheap wine in dusty bars while stalking much younger prey? Would I ever be able to find a decent pair of heels for less than fifty dollars?  (Sorry, my mind had started to wander on that last one. That happens when you start to get old.)  

I’d seen friends and coworkers go through mid-life crisis.  It normally involved fast cars and hair pieces for the men; boob jobs and tighter dresses for the women; and copious amounts of alcohol for both.  One guy I know even went as far as to buy a fast car and a hair piece on the same day he got drunk and met a woman with a tight dress and a boob job.  Given the fact that I was sober, driving a minivan and still wearing my comfy sweat shirt to the grocery store, I felt pretty safe.

Still the idea bore further exploration.  After all, maybe I was experiencing the Midwestern, cornfield livin’ version of the midlife crisis.  If I were destined to spend my days listening to fiddle music and attending barn dances, I wanted to be prepared.  So I decided to break the idea down to its essential elements and see if there were any substance to it. 

Well, point one of a midlife crisis is the presumption that one has reached the middle of one’s life.  Though I may be forty cough-cough years old, I am certain that I have not reached the medium of my lifespan.  By my calculations, I have many, many years before I reach the top of the hill. Oh, did I mention that I plan to live to be a hundred and thirty (making my midlife around age 65)?

Point two of a midlife crisis is the state of crisis.  I stood in front of the mirror and assessed my reflection.  Was I in crisis?  I checked my arms and legs.  They seemed to be working properly.  I checked my head.  Well, my eyes didn't work as well as they once did.  And there were a few new wrinkles.  And a grey hair.  But a pair of contact lenses, some concealer and a cut and color would fix that right up. I looked at my butt.  (Good lord, is that my butt?) Well, the good news was that I didn’t LOOK like I was in crisis. 

I didn’t feel like I was in crisis either.  At least I didn’t THINK I felt like I was in crisis.  After all, what exactly was a crisis? I wondered. I decided to check.  I pulled out my dictionary and thumbed my way to the Cs.  Crab. Cries. Crimson.  There it is, Crisis.  I crossed my fingers before reading. 

Crisis.  A noun.  An unstable situation of extreme danger or difficulty.  Hmmm…by that definition, I wake up in crisis every morning and it lasts until I down at least three cups of coffee.   A fine definition, I thought, but not very helpful in this case.

I decided to try the Internet instead.  According to Wikipedia, a mid-life crisis is an emotional period of doubt and anxiety sometimes experienced by people who realize that their life is already half over.  I sighed with relief.  That cinched it.  I am definitely NOT having a midlife crisis. 

After all, my life isn’t half over.  It’s only half begun.