What a "very reasonable mid-life crisis" looks like

A chance encounter in my neighborhood painted the picture perfectly

Dec 13, 2024

“Being a dad at a rock climbing competition is to repeatedly say to your wife ‘I could do that’ while knowing deep down that you could absolutely not do that.” …From my newly-launched public Instagram account: @AlecMcNayr

What does this mean, really?

I've joked for a while now that I'm having a “very reasonable mid-life crisis,” which is a nice half-joke because it both confesses that I'm privately wrestling with some internal, emotional identity issues but also assures the hearer that I'm not going off the rails, trying to soothe said issues with a new sports car or a new sports wife. I'm perfectly happy with both models I've got, thank you.

That’s funny, but what does this phrase mean, really?

Here’s a recent story that paints the picture.

As they say at fancy restaurants, as they place a crust of toasted rhubarb in front of you, please enjoy.

Christmas Spirit

Every year, on December 1st, we break out all our Christmas decorations. Boxes on boxes on boxes. We go all out.

Thanksgiving? One box.

Valentine’s day? One-third of a box.

Columbus Day? Canceled.

Christmas though? Ten boxes. At least.

We buy the Christmas tree and decorate it with every trinket-y doo-dad we've ever bought on our vacations. It’s an annual family museum. We get to relive those moments every year.

I highly recommend a Christmas ornament as a memento — it’s better than shot glasses or yet another $45 t-shirt.

We also rediscover all our random Christmas purchases over the years.

For me, this includes a set of Elf pajamas. Yes, from the Will Ferrell movie Elf.

And I wore those that very night. I’m like Mariah Carey, but instead of singing, I’m wearing decorative PJs.

The Next Morning

I woke up late the next day — Monday morning the 2nd — threw on a coat and took the dog for a walk, like I do every morning. Because as the dad of the house, that's the job I do. Ensure that the dog poops on someone else's yard.

It’s usually a short walk because I have to ensure the kids are awake, lunches get made, and everyone’s generally shuffling toward school. This is our daily routine.

This particular Monday, however, was our first day back to the regular schedule after being off for over a week for the Thanksgiving holiday. (We went to Disney World, which is another story.)

So my hair was unwieldy and my beard was long and, now very, very grey. Who am I kidding? It's stark white.

It’s 6:14 AM and I’m running late, so I get out the door with Penny, our four-year-old Irish terrier. And because I'm rushed, I forget to bring a poop bag.

When Penny successfully destroys a neighbor’s yard, I pat my pockets to let any onlookers know that I know what I’ve done. The shame of forgetting the bag. Nothing worse you can do.

I mentally note the location and circle back to my house.

The Encounter

But by the time I get back to the house, I'm overheated — it's a California winter, so it's 62 degrees already — so I take off the coat, leave the dog, and double back out the front door to go scoop up that poop.

I stroll past my neighbor's house, which is an AirBNB, which drives me crazy because my dog basically gets a new person to bark at every 3-4 days.

But I get it; I live in a very walkable neighborhood. There are six coffee shops up the street, and none of them sells a latte for less than $7. They have an OPEC-style stranglehold on the neighborhood. The prices go up a dollar a year, all at the same time. But this is the price of urban desire. This is my neighborhood. We're hip! I can't help it.

I'm feeling late, so I pick up the pace. I am in a controlled sprint.

For efficiency, I’ve already pulled the florescent green poop bag down my right hand, ready for the poop, though it still a block away.

I'm listening to a podcast, of course. I’m an hour deep into David Perell's interview with author Tucker Max, who is discussing the power and importance of people writing their own memoirs. He considers them a meaningful tool for healing and grappling with one's own life and identity, which is moving me to think deeply about my own story, causing the emotions to swell from some deep internal yearning inside of me, begging to come out.

And all that emotion is causing me watery eyes and slight congestion, which loosens up the night's stuffed-up nose, and the contents of my sinus — you know, the gross green morning lump — drops into the back of my throat.

But not fully.

So I have to perform a giant, disgusting clearing of my throat to pull it all forward.

You know the type.

I have Google fire alarms in my house, and if they ever detect smoke, they calmly state, “There is smoke detected in. ‘Living Room.’ The alarm will sound. The alarm is loud.”

I am about to hock. The hock will be loud.

Deep in the fog of my emotions, muffled by the volume and noise cancellation of my AirPods, I do a reverberating "hoocccccccck" and compel the green turd forward into my mouth, and I form my lips to be ready to spit this sinus-alien into the grass to my right, so it's out of sight and away from foot traffic (I'm not a monster!)

Only, as I spit, it hits the edge of one of my dry, chapped lips (from mouth-breathing all night thanks my new mouth-guard to protect what's left of my teeth from grinding them for a decade), and the globulous lougie deflects right onto the concrete about 3 feet in front of me.

And as I look up, my brain — still in a distant emotional vacation away from this physical plain — zaps right back into my body, in time for me to realize that I have hocked this nuclear-green lougie right at the feet of the couple staying in the AirBNB next to me, walking back from one of the trendy coffee shops, hot lattes in hand.

Time stands still.

What They Saw

Let's recap what this young, trendy couple experienced.

They traveled to sunny Los Angeles in December and chose to rent an AirBnb in a quiet neighborhood with a walkability score of 92 and hundreds of third-wave coffee shops and trendy restaurants.

They walked up the street to get an overpriced but indulgent cup of coffee mixed with an alternative milk, and strolled back to their rented cottage, undoubtedly discussing about the many, many milk options.

And they saw, at a distance, a man toward them, wearing what looks like a Will Ferrell Elf costume, a green poop bag over his right hand, but strangely, no dog in sight.

He has strange unkempt hair and a grizzled old man white beard, like Tim Allen at the 53-minute mark of The Santa Clause.

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And as this man gets closer—which happens quickly because he's moving at a race walker's pace—they realize that he is not well, he's gently crying, maybe?

And instead of looking up to acknowledge them, rears his head back, clears his throat and hocks a neon green lougie the size of a healthy Mediterranean date directly at their feet, and then looks them right in the eyes as he freezes.

This is what they saw.

And I have two thoughts on it.

a) This might as well be an “anti-AirBNB ad” for Hilton.

and

b) This is what having a very reasonable mid-life crisis is like.

The most mid-lifey part of it

And instead of hiding this story deep in the recesses of my personal history, I'm writing it up, sharing it with you, and probably going to share it to a group of strangers at a nearby comedy Open Mic this week.

No new sports car.

No new sports wife.

But rather, claiming and sharing this new me.