There’s a huge red flag: he wears white pants in public
Midlife crisis is nothing but an excuse to give 50-year-old men permission to behave like irresponsible, selfish brats under the shield of a non-existent, existential middle-age crises
How do you know that a man is in the grips of his midlife crisis? There are two major signs.
The first sign is that he starts talking about midlife crises all the time. If he’ sa columnist for the Lifestyle section of the Sunday Times, you best believe you’re going to read about the topic of midlife crises at least once a year.
The second, and more clear sign that the midlife blues have their grubby hands around his cojones and are squeezing hard, is when he starts accusing every man between the age of 45 and 70 — who shows any sign of enjoying his life — of being clearly in the throes of a midlife crisis.
Just the other day I spotted a fellow who looked like he was in his mid-to-late 50s walking out of some obviously upmarket boutique at the mall with a monster bag full of clothes. I don’t know which one. I walk around almost exclusively in Pick n Pay Clothing sweatpants, so I don’t know my Versace from my Louis Vuitton.
He was on a call, grinning so widely I could see the filling in his last left lower jaw molar. The reason I know he was undergoing the psychological condition known as a midlife crisis is because he looked way too happy, and I’ll be damned if some other guy is going to be happier than me without me trying to spoil the moment inside my jealous, diabolical mind. Another reason is that there’s no way any 57-year-old man who’s lost the hair on top of his head and has impressive man boobs could be that happy unless he had a 23-year-old PA waiting for him in her Rosebank loft, or he’s on cocaine. Classic signs of a midlife crisis right there.
But let’s take a detour backwards. First, I’m not sure why the phenomenon is called a midlife crisis. The male life expectancy in SA is about 63 years (last time I checked). At 52, any baffling, loony behaviour on my part should be my five or sixth life crisis then, shouldn’t it?
Even when factoring in genetics, generally good eating habits and access to above-average medical healthcare — if I said I’d screwed the children’s university education and splurged on a Harley-Davidson — it would be much closer to a twothirds life crisis.
The second issue is that a significant portion of woke culture adherents don’t believe in the existence of midlife crises.
They believe it’s the powerful men in the Bilderberg Group, Illuminati, the Vatican and the G7 that decided to give 50-year-old men permission to behave like irresponsible, selfish brats under the shield of a non-existent, existential middle-age crisis.
The keyboard crusaders are on to something on this one. One of the first signs that a man is in the midst of this phenomenon is when he wears white pants in public. That’s a big red flag right there.
Does it make any sense that a person loses sleep over the meaning of life and contemplates the huge philosophical questions of the day such as: “What’s my purpose?”
Is the answer, “A pair of white linen pants”?I’m no Nietszhe, but I can’t see how anyone goes from worrying about one’s mortality and frequent EDSinspired issues to wearing leather pants, a leather durag and studded boots.
The only explanation for wearing white pants in public is that you really wanted to be a naval officer, a nurse, or even better, a nurse in a naval hospital when you grew up.
As for my peers hiding behind riding superbikes so you can have a costume party inspired by Michael Jackson’s Beat It video, admit that you miss the year 1983. Ease up on the pseudo-psychological mumbo jumbo about feelings of inadequacy and emasculation in the workplace. Men made those rules.
Perhaps the best manifestation of this dubious crisis is, naturally, the secret, fully-furnished Ballito apartment with exclusively Smeg and Le Creuset appliances and crockery that’s often discovered by the estate when Viagra-inspired fatal accidents occur.
According to the Midlife Apartment Handbook, it seems the age limit for the inhabitants of these love nests (with matching peach sofas and curtains) is 30 as an upper limit. The telltale signs of the existence of the love corner are a change in barber, a more rigorous grooming regime and knowing lyrics to Beyoncé songs. Suddenly growing a ’tache, a goatee or close-shaven stubble are also dead giveaways as obvious as switching from boxers to tanga briefs.
I’ve been planning my own twothirds life crisis for about a decade now. The missus, mother and family read this column religiously, so I’m not at liberty to reveal my plans. All I can share is that it will increase the statistical probability of me being shot in the leg by the bodyguard of a Colombian cartel drug lord in a misunderstanding about the affections of a cocktail waitress in a Bogota strip club.
I say, if you’re going to manufacture a crisis, go all the way!