Well, this was unexpected. For decades I've been laughing at the notion of adding one of these seemingly ridiculous chapters to the novel of my life. But now that this behemoth sandworm has reared its voluminous head from the soil under my aging feet, I almost feel... well, grateful.
In retrospect, I hadn't given the issue much thought other than what was sufficient for satire: a man hits his 40's, tosses away a long career, sells the house, and runs off to Barbados with the secretary; all the trappings of a darkly hilarious cliche. But me? Oh hell no. I was headed in the right direction. I thought the American Dream chess pieces were slowly moving across the board, gleefully anticipating the triumphant cry of "checkmate" at some point in the near future.
But as the saying goes, "life is what happens when you're making other plans".
Don't get me wrong. I don't regret my choices, particularly over the last 2 decades. I did what I felt was right, even if that meant sacrificing what could have been promising paths,
easier choices. But I'm not where I want to be, and that requires a lengthy review, by a committee of one. (Hopefully, I'll bring coffee and donuts to the meeting).
So no, I have no intention of doing the tried-and-true stunts. I don't want a shiny Porsche. I'm not taking up extreme cliff jumping or joining the local militia. I'll never make it to Barbados, and I've never had a secretary. But if I'm to believe the more nuanced version of a midlife crisis, then maybe it's a valuable exercise. That going back to the roots of myself is precisely what's needed: to carry me through the storm and come out a better human when the clouds part and the sun resumes its work. And that meeting starts now.