Trouble Don't Last Always
Did you know the male midlife crisis is real? Honestly, truly. It’s not a made-up Hollywood trope utilized to explain why some dude has suddenly gone off the rails and bought a Porsche, or started dating someone half his age, or inexplicably “secured” a shit-ton of stock in Enron. The midlife crisis is an unforgiving, out-of-nowhere, bullshit right-of-passage shared, colloquially, by those of us with a Y-chromosome. God’s little menopausal gift to men.
And I’m going through mine right now.
All year I’ve had concepts of a plan to put my life back together. 2024 was going to be my year of reinvention. Hope and faith led me to believe that, surely, I have been through enough these last few years. Now was the time to rebuild. I would spend 2024 finding fulfilling work, getting my and mom’s finances together, making new friends, dating, stretching my writing muscles again, and laying the foundation for a successful new life here in Los Angeles. The Universe seems to have relented this year from taking my loved ones away and pulling other rugs out from underneath me, for which I am eternally grateful. But left to my own devices, free of the whirlwind of trying to fix one calamity or another, I found myself depleted. “Let’s do this,” quickly turned into, “Go lay down!” And there I’ve stayed.
My confidence is shot. Where I am feels like back at the beginning, quite literally, and I have absolutely no idea where I’m going. My job search, sporadic as it has been this year, has resulted in a handful of rejections and not one interview. That doesn’t bother me as much as it should—I know it’s a tough market—but as I sift through the offerings, I sigh at the thought of enduring corporate bullshit to pay my bills while other people’s pockets get full, and I groan, deflated, at not having sufficient experience in anything I’m moderately interested in, because I’ve been job/survival-focused and not career-focused all this time. There’s so much shame here. I feel like I’ve gone through life not paying attention. That, somehow, I’ve missed, or not taken, every opportunity I’ve had to build something; anything. Wasted time. How am I 45 years old without a “thing” or vocation, living in my mama’s house, watching my debt and my weight rise to astronomical heights, with no idea how I’m supposed to pivot at my big age into God knows what career I’m supposed to master, so that I can be fulfilled while making enough money to give me and my mom a nice life; and, also, hire trainers to get my excess weight and debt, respectively, eliminated?
I’m whinnying, I know. But FUCK! Can we get an “Inside Out” spinoff about Riley’s parents, and their generation, because EYE. (and, I suspect, WE) NEED. HELP!
Somewhere in the spring I just shrugged and laid down. I started spending most days on the couch, stuffing my face and watching television, and most nights in bed doing the same. I spent and ate and partied like I was still employed. I made friends with the cashier at the local smoke shop, who soon began stocking my favorite sour straw snacks to complement my frequent blunt wrap purchases. No boyfriend half my age, but a visit to the hospital a couple months ago accosted me with my first encounter of my mom’s vagina, which is thirty-plus years my senior; so it counts. Midlife crisis activated.
It hasn’t all been bad. For one, my relationship with exercise has evolved dramatically over the last eight months. I actually go to the gym now, rather consistently, without having to talk myself into the trip. For the first time in my life going to the gym is non-negotiable. A friend introduced me to the Fitbod app, which I find extremely useful as it crafts routines based off the equipment I, and my gym, have at hand. And I can reference a video if I don’t know how to do an exercise, or easily replace an exercise if a machine I’m supposed to use is unavailable. I’ve found the app helpful in adopting a no-excuses mentality, particularly once I’ve gotten my streak up. The horror I felt when I missed a workout, which reset my then 12-week streak, almost made me weep. I haven’t been able to get back on the horse—working out three times a week—since June, but I am determined to use the remaining 15 weeks of 2024 to break my streak record. Exercise has, arguably, been my foundation this year; it helps motivate me to, at least, get out of bed and off the couch. The gym is now a friend, and for that I am grateful.
I am also grateful for hobbies. 2024 reintroduced me to bowling, which has, in many ways, become the love of my life. Someone told me about OutLoud Sports, a gay sports community, with locations across the country, ranging in activity from Flag Football to Tennis. I happened upon the bowling league just in time to secure a spot for the spring season. I was in a beginner’s league in my middle school years, and I loved it. I didn’t realize the love was permanent until I joined OutLoud. I league-bowled in the spring and summer; muscle memory kicked in and then I started to learn and develop in skill. Friends...I’m pretty good! The fall league begins next week and my new ball Shug Avery and I are ready to kick some ass and beat our current high score of 169!
Finding a love was certainly not on my bingo card for 2024, hopeful as I might have been, but me and Miss Shug got a good thang goin’. And daddy likes his shugga.
Bowling has also afforded me community. I’m meeting like-minded people, with a common interest, and have even made a couple friends. One such bowling buddy and I have spun-off into OutLoud’s pickleball league, and are having big fun talking and gossiping whilst putting forth a valiant effort to...win? Those are few, but my partner is good-humored and my Apple Watch loves the spike in weekend calories burned. HUZZAH!
There is a long way to go before I’m out of the woods. I need a job, like, stat. And I could really use a good male friend. A black male friend, tbh. I don’t know why finding black gay folk in Los Angeles is so challenging. But I press on.
I’m hopeful(?) about the future, but I can’t lie...I’m having a really hard time seeing beyond my current circumstances right now. Cinderfella Will, tending to house and mom; bouncing from job to job, trying to make ends meet; watching all the other houses and families on the block modernize and flourish. I have to keep reminding myself: I will be okay.
Trouble don’t last always, Will.
This, too, shall pass.
