Rantings of a Middle-Aged Man

By Dick McCullough

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What the heck is going on? I went to sleep last night a 25 year old kid, with full head of hair, more energy than sitting still could tolerate, just starting my first real job (I delayed, a la Zonker Harris, as long as I could manage). A modern day Rip Van Winkle, I woke up this morning a weary 49 year old, complete with thinning hair, a reluctantly but inevitably growing paunch, three kids, a wife. And an acute case of Suburbitis.

Somebody call the police. My youth has been stolen. The Suburbitis is so advanced, I find that I've already passed through the Volvo wagon stage (stage I), the Chrysler mini-van stage (stage II) and I'm well into my second SUV stage (advanced stage III). So advanced, in fact, that my standard issue golden retriever has already died of natural causes at the ripe old age of 13.

I'm fast approaching stage IV Suburbitis. I'm terminal! Somebody call a personal trainer. I need to get in denial, and fast.

What's worse, I live in a community that considers even middle age, not to mention old age, a serious and contagious disease. I'm a Hawaiian with psoriasis in 1852. Surf's up! Somebody call a taxi. It's time to get out of Dodge.

What's worse than worse, I'm not getting any, either. My wife never was very interested and she sure hasn't gotten any more interested as she's gotten older. My interest level, unfortunately, has not waned. Wasn't I supposed to peak at 18? Maybe there was a typo and they meant 118. And as if it weren't bad enough already, I have an overwhelming desire for cute young things. If you were a beautiful, okay, not ugly, okay, okay, breathing young woman, and let's just say, for the sake of illustration, serendipitously deranged, so that you were even slightly interested in sleeping with me, I would be on you like wet Kleenex.

Not a moment's thought for the carving up of my estate (which, given the current real estate market, is not insubstantial). Not a pregnant hesitation for the emotional trauma I would be visiting on my three kids. Not an eye blink for the wife or dead retriever. But the serendipitously deranged young females have all been kidnapped by boy bands and stashed somewhere in Florida. Somebody call the FBI.

So here I sit, desperate for one of those hot rocker chicks from a ZZ Top video. I know you can rent those by the hour, but that doesn't seem quite sporting. Like shooting a bird resting on a branch. You're supposed to shoot them in flight. I'd feel like I was cheating. So, as I said, here I sit. Rationally, I know that I am extremely fit (translation: decent body), intelligent, funny, and WEALTHY. I thought girls liked money. I even bought a Porsche 911, an alleged babe magnet, or so I was told. Man, I don't even attract metal shavings. I would do better waiting for a bus. And it would be easier on my back, too. Somebody call a chiropractor. That car is killing me.

So maybe the material girls see through the car and Italian clothes. Maybe they realize I'm too intellectual, too artistic, too sensitive. I'm not shallow enough for them. Yeah, that's it. My tastes are vastly eclectic, a regular Renaissance Man of depth and brilliance. Also unspeakably modest. I play Jewel CD's. I cry at movies. But I cry alone.

That's it. I'm too sophisticated, too urbane, too heavy. Somebody call a jock. I need to regress. I don't look 49. I don't look 39. I don't act it, either, much to the chagrin of my wife and delight of my children. Whenever my wife and I go to dinner, she insists on separate tables. I've embarrassed her in front of too many waitresses. But I almost never get kicked out of restaurants anymore. So I couldn't be that bad, could I? Somebody call Emily Post. I want a second opinion.
There must be some mistake. I'm too immature to be getting old. Call Jeb Bush. I want a recount!

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