Starting from the middle
There is a moment they say in his forties or fifties when a person wakes up and realizes that half of his life is over and the next half is going to involve a lot more physical pain. Panic ensues and this person hyperventilates and then does arbitrary things like buying a new sports car or divorcing his wife. They call this a crisis.
I'm not sure about the rest of the world, but when I think about crisis, this sort of picture doesn't spring to mind. I think about impending nuclear holocaust or a missing vial of anthrax, and usually a countdown of some sort is involved. "Crisis" seems too strong a word for some dude shitting himself because he's afraid of the moment that a nurse will shove an IV needle into his forearm and miss the vein, thus assuring his demise.
But, for argument's sake, let's say that this can in fact constitute some sort of crisis, albeit an impotent and smug one. Then I have something to tell the forty year old; while he waxes semi-philosophically in his jacuzzi about all the things he didn't do, all the books he didn't read, all the kids he didn't go to Africa and adopt, I contemplate whether my cynicism will ever allow me to have job satisfaction, whether I can tear my subconscious from a media filled to the brim with breasts and ass long enough to hold a conversation with a woman's eyes, and whether I can find a decent mate in the pool of abrasive, obnoxious career-onts* that now constitutes the opposite sex. See, while the forty year old's "crisis" is a regretful yearning for things he didn't do, there is comfort in the fact that his opportunities have passed. Game over, losing sucks, but now have a lemonade, brush your teeth, and go to bed. But for me, these decisions are impending; there are lots of loud voices suggesting this road and that path. The game has just gotten interesting, the space invaders are coming, and the clock is ticking...10...9...8...
My name is Shawn, I'm twenty five years old, and this is my crisis.
*career-oriented; aka "conts"
I'm not sure about the rest of the world, but when I think about crisis, this sort of picture doesn't spring to mind. I think about impending nuclear holocaust or a missing vial of anthrax, and usually a countdown of some sort is involved. "Crisis" seems too strong a word for some dude shitting himself because he's afraid of the moment that a nurse will shove an IV needle into his forearm and miss the vein, thus assuring his demise.
But, for argument's sake, let's say that this can in fact constitute some sort of crisis, albeit an impotent and smug one. Then I have something to tell the forty year old; while he waxes semi-philosophically in his jacuzzi about all the things he didn't do, all the books he didn't read, all the kids he didn't go to Africa and adopt, I contemplate whether my cynicism will ever allow me to have job satisfaction, whether I can tear my subconscious from a media filled to the brim with breasts and ass long enough to hold a conversation with a woman's eyes, and whether I can find a decent mate in the pool of abrasive, obnoxious career-onts* that now constitutes the opposite sex. See, while the forty year old's "crisis" is a regretful yearning for things he didn't do, there is comfort in the fact that his opportunities have passed. Game over, losing sucks, but now have a lemonade, brush your teeth, and go to bed. But for me, these decisions are impending; there are lots of loud voices suggesting this road and that path. The game has just gotten interesting, the space invaders are coming, and the clock is ticking...10...9...8...
My name is Shawn, I'm twenty five years old, and this is my crisis.
*career-oriented; aka "conts"
posted by Shawn Schwartz at
7:44 PM
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