Don’t look at me that way. You’ve been there. Hell, you may be “there” now.

You have the house, the car, the wife…the kid(s). If you’re lucky you still have your waistline and most of your hair. You also have a job you hate, a fat mortgage and a few other bills that hang over your head like the sword of Damocles in this moribund economy.

Then again, maybe not. Maybe you’re just reading this blog because you enjoy the sick, pale schadenfreude of this exercise. I must admit, twenty years ago as a callow youth I would have found this blog (if there were blogs twenty years ago) amusing. I would have enjoyed it much the same way I found Michael and Elliot’s

Invisible

musings funny in a “that will never happen to me” way when Elliot lamented being “invisible to teenage girls.”

Let me make a rather shallow and pathetic stand right here and say that until very recently I was cool.

The King of Cool

No, really. I dated a lot of nice (and a few not-so-nice but still fun) women. I wore stylish clothes. I had interesting hobbies and jobs. I lived a life of risk, interest and mild adventure. (I’ll delve into said risks, interest and adventure in later posts.)

As things are wont to do, things started to go wrong. Dreams sputtered to a halt. Rolls of the dice ended up snake eyes. Failures became more noticeable and more difficult from which to bounce back. I became more and more risk averse.

Then at age 38 the failure abated when I met and married a wonderful woman. Let me stop right there: she’s great. I do not regret it. She’s the best thing that ever happened to me. (I just want that on the record. This is not about whining about being married.)

Anyway, my wife enjoyed a night out and a good laugh as much as I, but we both kept hearing that ticking sound and gave in.

So, we had a daughter.  We adore her. She’s funny and cute and a blessing. Unfortunately, at less than a year old she effortlessly wears us out. Before daughter, we would often–with a devil-may-care air about us–go to a movie on the spur of the moment. Now–when we can get a sitter–we go to movies for the peace and quiet only Dolby Surround can give us. Where once on a Saturday night we would paint the town red, we’re lucky these days to get the lid off the paint before we conk out. Not cool.

Nice shirt.

Other symptoms: despite having a closet full of nice clothes, I find myself wearing the same three or four things to work every week (not including days when the boss orders me to wear a shirt emblazoned with the company logo. I call those my “Roto-Rooter” shirt days). Not cool.

Oh yes, work.

I work at a job I don’t enjoy much because
1.    The economy stinks and quitting now is not smart
2.    See #1.

Nah. It’s mostly because I am a responsible adult. Yes, my wife has a very good job that pays twice as much as mine, but I still have to pull my weight.  Being miserable is no excuse. My Dad worked at a crummy job for 25 years to put food on the table. Of course, unlike me he had a union to go to if he needed to gripe.

Now, before you leave me a nasty comment telling me that I’m lucky to have a job: thanks. Really. Now I also feel guilty for having a job and disliking it intensely.

I also want to state that I do good work for the aforementioned boss, even on Roto-Rooter shirt days.

But holy crap it would be so nice to just walk in and…

I digress.

Okay, to recap: at one time I think I was cool. (Cool by my own personal standards. I don’t mean Fonzie cool.  I’m sure if you knew me that most of you kind readers would laugh at my suggestion that I was ever “cool.” Perhaps the real thing isn’t that I was cool, simply that I had more self-respect and a sense of where life was taking me. Yes, that’s it. Aaaaaaaaaaaay.)

Now I think I’m uncool. I was an interesting guy–now I’m not. I feel like I’m in a rut. I feel I should be doing something else with my life. I mean, I’m in my forties. What am I waiting for?

Actually, like Joe Banks, I don’t feel good. Almost never do.  The worst part is, I work for Mr. Waturi and I don’t feel good. And Mr. Waturi doesn’t like it that I go to the doctor:

Mr. Waturi: “And what’s this about a doctor’s appointment? You’re always going to the doctor!”

Joe Banks: “I don’t feel good.”

Mr. Waturi: “So what? You think I feel good? Nobody feels good. After childhood, it’s a fact of life. I feel rotten. So what? I don’t let it bother me or interfere with my job. And what’s this about a doctor’s appointment? You’re always going to the doctor!”

Thank you, Mr. Waturi, you are a true humanitarian.

I never feel good. I think it’s because I worry. About everything. My health, my wife, my daughter, asteroids smiting the earth. I worry and I don’t feel good.

I didn’t use to be like this. If I got worried I’d have a martini or go dancing. Or go dancing and have several martinis. Or hang out with friends. Now, I worry if I have just one martini I’ll fall asleep by ten.

I’m gripped with a panic, too. I’m in my forties. Am I caught in the gravitational pull of the black hole to old age already? Is it all over? Do I start wearing tube socks and sandals? Do I stop trimming my nose hair?

A colleague who works with me for Mr. Waturi saw me blunder in to work a few weeks ago and volunteered an observation:

“You don’t look good.”

“I don’t feel good,” my standard refrain, followed by a list of grievances.

She cocked an eyebrow, leaned back in her chair and said, “You need to get your groove back, man.”

She was right. Hell, even my very patient, very kind wife probably thinks so. My daughter, too, and she has only known me a few months.

I’m not the man I used to be.

Now, part of that is okay. Who wants to be the same person their whole life? I just want a little of that swagger back. I want to be that guy my wife fell in love with, not this schlubby, worried bore. I want to feel good again, you know?

So here I am, raging against the dying of the light…trying to figure out just how the hell I’m supposed to get this mythical groove back.

You’re welcome to join me along the way. Feel free to comment, but remember, I’m not arguing that with you.

This entry was posted on Sunday, August 9th, 2009 at 9:43 pm and is filed under Panic. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.