Passing through the belly button of a midlife crisis

Passing through the belly button of a midlife crisis

By Vic Albornoz Lactaoen

JAKARTA (JP): Oh, the joy of weekends! ... I had the luxury of
time available to spend lazing around in a pile of pillows,
scratching my head and wondering if eating seven meals a day
could be considered an acceptable form of recreation.

Fatigued from four hours of staring at the ceiling, I had
tried repeatedly to rise to the occasion of each hour passing
away. But I seemed to be bolted down to the mattress. At first I
blamed it on gravity, but it was much graver.

"Just how old is old and how young is young?" I said, in
contemplation. A friend of mine, in a moment of utmost
resignation, captured it all. He said that there are really three
phases in life. The first is when you have all the time, all the
energy, but no money. This is followed by that stage when you
have all the energy, all the money, but no time. The last is
when you have all the money, all the time, but no energy.

Yes, that's the process of aging. Nope, there is a more
politically correct term: going through life's irreversible
process.

So many discussions, so many theories and even more firsthand
experience about midlife crises have been immortalized in books
and woeful conversations. Sure, you know you've hit middle age,
not by your manic refusal to reveal the number of birthdays you
have had in this lifetime, but when your bulging midriff ceases
to qualify as baby fat.

You know that you've gone past the halfway mark when almost
every year you have to go to the ophthalmologist to have your
eyes examined. You have lost the right to be called a "young
adult" and simply sink into the category of "responsible
citizen".

But what's so bad about aging, really? Everyone -- from
ordinary mortals to well-known celebrities -- must undergo life's
charted course. Apart from the fact that you no longer have the
gall or stamina to last an entire night standing and trying to
look sexy and available in the bar at O'Reiley's, B.A.T.S, Salsa
or Tanamur, it isn't really that bad. If you can go on with your
life without being obsessed with menopause, hiding traces of a
receding hairline and a widening forehead, or being accused by
anyone 15 years younger of being a "breathing museum piece," then
you will be all right.

The only pain comes from the options you have missed out on,
or when you start fantasizing about the big "ifs" in your life.
"What if I had gone that way and not taken this route?" "What if
I had decided to be a professional bungee jumper or an MTV VJ,
instead of being this urban couch potato, whose idea of a good
time is watching DVDs, alternating with cable programs, on
weekends?"

The even bigger pain follows when you start trying to regain
lost time, attempting to regain the irretrievable, and
consciously go into mental and social denial. No amount of
scientific miracles, workouts or cosmetic operations can bring
back that all-too temporary pleasure of being young and reckless.
Any attempt to look, behave like or become someone 20 years your
junior is an exercise in futility. If you haven't realized that
the fountain of youth is as real and true as Santa Claus, then
you should go and see another kind of doctor, very very soon.

What is wrong with savoring all of your years? By the time
you hit 40, you are old enough to know how bad it can get, but
still strong enough to hope for the better days to come. If you
have a well-functioning mental system, you have learned the rules
of most of the games in life - whether in business or romance.
You have come to accept that there are as many faces as there are
assholes. It is only a matter of knowing which side of the person
to see.

You are familiar with all the subtle shades of gray --
comfortable with the fact that the world is not, and can never
be, subdivided into black and white. You can smile at the thought
that life is unfair. And you have convinced yourself that you
can't have everything.

Sure. At a certain point, all the factory defects start to
emerge. You begin to bond with your relatives about the diseases
inherent in your clan. You become extra-concerned about blood
pressure, uric acid and cholesterol content, and start taking a
strong interest in subjects as vital as lymphoma, colon or breast
cancer, and Alzheimer's disease. You actually experience more
enjoyment watching a documentary of a penguin giving birth at the
North Pole on the National Geographic channel, than enduring an
MTV special on the making of Backstreet Boys' latest video.

These are things a 20- or 30-year-old never thinks about.
These are issues that flaky, air-headed, handphone-crazy, mall
prowling nymphets with their belly buttons on full display do not
consider as part of the universe. You begin to frown upon the
shortcomings of youth ... But, good heavens, what you would do to
regain the original status of hairline, waistline, or even
consistency of facial skin!

Suddenly you want to simplify. You begin to wonder whether all
the fiery ambitions burning deep inside you are really worth all
your conscious hours. Yeah, sure, life is lonely at the top, but
the food is better. But it is at this point that you can no
longer ram just anything into your mouth -- because that oh-so-
delicious Padang food can already cause slight dizziness or
heaviness around the area of the nape.

Even bean sprouts or a ceasar salad can give you an attack of
gout the next morning. You ask yourself if you really need all
these shoes, suits and an overabundance of earthly possessions
that have defined who you are or how far you have gone.

You seek programs to help you get in touch with your inner
self, because you want to be at peace, not only with the world,
but also with yourself. The enlightenment period begins when what
was once all too important suddenly becomes just plain foolish.
From plunderer or philanderer, you suddenly turn philosopher, and
everyone begins to secretly ask questions if your family has a
history of mental disorder.

Ah, but then all these consolations and reflections seem so
insufficient when the truth about your mortality hits you right
smack on the face. Worst is when you feel an attraction for
somebody younger. And at that certain point in your life, you
realize that about 70 percent of the attractive population is
considerably younger than you are.

If they like you, then you either play deaf/mute/blind or
rummage through your knowledge of amateur psychology. It is
either they want something from you (definitely not your mature
body) or they are looking for a parent figure. If they don't give
you a second thought, then it is because that is the most logical
thing.

As you add more candles to your birthday cake, your choices
become fewer, but not necessarily of lesser quality. Acceptance,
my dear, simple acceptance of the law of natural selection can
give you the peace of mind you yearn for.

But you still give yourself a week or two of feeling
absolutely miserable because you know the object of your
affection attaches a very polite "Pak" or "Ibu" each time he or
she speaks to you. What is worse is when someone you pine for
starts calling you "Paman" or "Tante". Note the character
portrayed by Kevin Spacey in American Beauty and you get a
clearer picture of the rut you are in.

But then you are only as old as you think you are. Life can be
made more miserable if you become fixated on numbers: savings in
the bank, cars in the garage, returns on investments, rates of
interest.

Age has got nothing to do with the wrinkles on your face, but
the spirit with which you kindle your heart. Wow! That really
sounds like a lot of bull! But then, being old is nothing more
than setting limits to yourself, conforming to the idea that you
have to fit into a mold that hypocritical society has set for
you.

Provided you are past 40 and avoid dressing like Madonna or
Leonardo de Caprio, then you are still OK. As long as you are
willing to learn and experience something new, despite and
because of your age, then you'll never stagnate.

Yeah, sure. As you grow older, you are expected to mellow.
But then, like a fruit, when you mellow, you eventually rot. So
opt to be a happy fellow. It is true. Life indeed begins at 40.
This is because you understand life better when you have gone
through enough and still want to go through more.

The experimentation of the 20s and the drive of the 30s should
prop up the wisdom of midlife. And all the while, the lesson
meant to be learnt was never that complicated. It is we who have
tended to complicate the message.

Put simply: You can't have everything. But there is no harm in
trying.