Confessions of a middle-aged man

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I am a middle-aged man. There, I said it.

I’ve alluded to the not-so-stealthy approach of decrepitude, laughed (ha!) about my declining years, but never actually admitted the awful truth. I don’t feel particularly different—except, perhaps, more isolated than ever. And don’t get me wrong, I’m not pining for my youth, just wondering if other people feel this empty at this age.

Is this what life is all about? The youthful dreams trickle out of whatever place we’ve tried to nourish them until all that’s left is this shell, going through the motions, desperately hoping for some event to engage the fancy, kick into gear the dream mechanism and rejuvenate that most elusive and precious of all commodities: hope.

This is not to say I haven’t had my kick at the cat—whatever the hell that means. And I’m sure that whatever it means, the Humane Society can’t possibly approve. That’s if surviving your life counts as kicks at that poor cat, or if getting laid regularly (or should I say, “finding myriad short-term relationships”) also qualifies as feline abuse.

Dreams don’t die because you’ve hit middle age. They die because you won’t admit it. Photo by Jonathan Cosens Photography

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I’ve had my chances along the way and I have seized them … not. Is surviving your life the same as succeeding at it? And no, I’m not delusional—I don’t expect to survive life itself. I mean surviving the vicissitudes of fortune, making sure the fickle finger of fate doesn’t end up somewhere a latex glove usually goes (prostate exams, another reward for having lived this long?), and of course, avoiding the cat turning on you and rending you limb from limb.

All these years of moil and toil and striving—and I have a credit rating that makes bank officers laugh in my face. Or at least smile that smug, insincere, smarmy “Aw shucks, just doing my job” smile as they deny me, all while insisting they truly value my patronage.

Hollywood has taught me that, by now, I should be buying a hot car, embarking on an inappropriate relationship, or nursing some suicidal idée fixe about climbing a really high mountain—some grandiose physical confirmation that I’m still the hormone-fuelled bonehead I was at 20.

Cars, for me, are more mysterious than relationships—though they don’t seem to break down as quickly. As long as I’m not driving a minivan or a station wagon, I don’t particularly care what I challenge the highways with. In fact, I think if you’re getting laid on a semi-regular basis, you don’t need to replace your penis with chrome, mag wheels and insanely loud mufflers.

Buying a new car seems crazy to me, let alone buying a hideously expensive one. And unfortunately for those more advantaged middle-agers, buying a hot car just lets others spot the wind-blown sparsity of hair—the encroaching bald spot gleaming in the sun while the convertible top is down.

Should I be married to a soccer mom by now? Should I have been married at all? I think many of the women I’ve known—fortunately for them—have been much like bank officers in assessing the future success of my cat-flailings and decided that a long-term relationship would not yield the necessary accoutrements: minivan, home and children.

Am I too tired for any relationship, let alone an inappropriate one, at this juncture in my life? My most regular cat-kicking fancies for a good 30 years were romantic—or at least co-dependent. I dreamt of that one magical relationship that would energize me and help me succeed—not for myself, which was clearly out of the question—but for her, for us, for the sacred dream of us. Of course, the foundation of that fantasy was selfish: an us-for-me proposition. Which is why uneasy lies this relationship head.

While I’m a vasectomy closer to being one, I’ll never be an Abelard—and I probably wouldn’t recognize my Heloise even if her father performed the procedure himself. The world doesn’t seem very romantic anymore. Are there any modern legendary romances? And yes, I know “modern” and “legendary” sound as conflicted as people trying to share a relationship. This world feels too busy for true love—it’s tough to find it while piling up stuff. And then where would you store it?

Being older and more tired doesn’t lend itself to the physical forms of cat-kicking either—climbing mountains, racing speedboats, skydiving. I’m not averse to them; I just think it’s too much money for too temporary a fix. Thrill junkies seem to defy Darwin, and if we only get nine kicks at the cat, then these thrillers and their midlife imitators should beware.

It’s taken me until middle age to realize I’m essentially a loner. To come to terms with the fact that I’ll likely never find a soulmate to help make sense of a seemingly crazed and indifferent world.

The place where dreams go to die is not middle age—it’s a refusal to age. It’s clinging to a version of yourself that no longer fits. It’s defining yourself as just a womanizer, just an addict, just a writer, just a student—just anything. I am human and, thus, a whole range of things. And as much as I like definitions, I don’t relish applying them to myself.

The place where dreams go to die is any place that limits the possibilities. That says you can’t or you shouldn’t. That says there are no more kicks left for that poor, abused cat.