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I’ve noticed many of my friends going through a mid-life crisis in a variety of neurotic ways. I believe you’re about my age; how are you handling the shift into middle age? – Jerry M.
Depends what you mean by middle age. I’m 40. So when forecasting my expiration date, which none of us can ever really know, it’d be short-sighted for me not to factor in as yet undiscovered advances in medical science. Keeping in mind that 40 years ago, there were still no vaccines for chicken pox, meningitis, or hepatitis A. Smallpox hadn’t been eradicated, nor had a test-tube baby been born. The point being, they’re getting better at this stuff all the time. These are the days of miracle and wonder, as Paul Simon sang in 1986, ten years before they cloned Dolly the sheep.
Plus, with the antioxidant power of my staple superfood (guacamole), I just assume I’ll live to 160, give or take a few years. Meaning I’m less “middle-aged,” than 25 percent aged. Since AARP now offers membership at age 50, I could potentially be facing 110 years of senior discounts at Denny’s, breakfasts that if you ate them regularly, would surely kill you by age 55, rendering everything else I just said moot. Also, since the Social Security fund will probably be depleted by the time I’m a senior, I’ll likely be praying for death by about age 64. Either that, or applying for a job as a Denny’s greeter, just to make enough scratch to buy cat food for dinner. So there’s that to look forward to.
Other than the coming Armageddon, however, I think I’m aging with enough grace to get by. Since my car is a classic (a 2005 Honda Accord), I finally put the spoiler on and took the muffler off, because ladies like to hear a jungle cat roar. And while my wife is a looker, I try not to let her trap me in the present, which will soon be the past. Instead, I look to the future, occasionally dropping by obstetrics wards in hospitals, figuring my trophy wife is probably being born right about now. (Aging gracefully, the literature tells us, is all about maintaining healthy relationships.)
I know what you mean, however, about friends acting out. This is the time of life when an ungodly amount of people begin having affairs, getting ridiculous cosmetic surgery, and defacing themselves with bad tattoos. It’s a tiresome arms race, and pointless besides. Not only are all the people you know — even the ridiculously young ones — getting older by the minute. But now that everyone is committed to the appearance of eternal youth at all costs, there’s no cachet in being young anymore. I know a lot of 40-year-old women who are in better shape than their 20-year-old counterparts. Hell, I know 50-year-old women of whom that’s true, since they didn’t spend their entire youth super-sizing their fries, while counting Facebook updating as cardio.
So if you’re striving to hold onto your youthful appearance — big deal. Who isn’t? You want to break new ground? You want to be ahead of the curve? Embrace your age. In fact, pretend you’re even older. Old is the new young. Lunge lustily into it. Vacation in Branson. Start forgetting friends’ names. Wear socks and sandals to the beach, with a tacky straw sun hat and lots of zinc-oxide on your nose. Whistle in public (nobody does anymore). Wear rose-scented perfume.
If you’re 40, in no time, you’ll pass for 80 – an age that we optimists call “halftime.”
I was in Wyoming on a fishing trip recently and had trouble hooking bass with a simple hard-bodied popper lure. I’m kidding — fishing is gay. I don’t have a fishing question. But I do have a question about herpes. There’s a smoking hot girl in my dorm –let’s call her Heather — who’s way out of my league. She’s an easy 9, I’m a beer-bloated 6. Anyway, last weekend she and I are hanging out and one thing leads to another — we go back to her room. We’re about to do the deed and she drops that she’s got the herp. Suddenly, everything makes sense. I freaked a little and begged off, but the more I think about it, isn’t herpes less of a social “disease” these days and more of a social body accessory, like a tattoo or a piercing? And if it’s the price of tapping a chick who’d normally be out of my league, shouldn’t I be willing to pay up? No free lunch and all that? — Going for it in Georgetown
No. A social body accessory would be more along the lines of a friendship bracelet or maybe one of those Silly Bandz, not a ring of fire around your genitalia. The social disease is, of course, much more common than most people think. It’s estimated that one out of every five Americans has genital herpes. Meaning that you should probably only have sex with four out of five Americans, just to err on the side of caution. If you truly think you’re unworthy of a “9,” to the point that you would willingly let her transmit her disease to you, I suggest that you instead do one of three things:
1. Get hotter.
2. Lower your sights, perhaps shooting for a herpes-free “6 1/2.”
3. Tell her that you’d rather make love to her mind, unless she slutted that out without using protection, as well.
If you still feel the need to prove your devotion, pick a healthier alternative, like carving her initials into your leg with sterilized scissors. Scars can heal and go away. But herpes, unlike your infatuation with Heather, will last forever.
Matt Labash is a senior writer with the Weekly Standard magazine. His book, “Fly Fishing With Darth Vader: And Other Adventures with Evangelical Wrestlers, Political Hitmen, and Jewish Cowboys,” is now available in paperback from Simon and Schuster. Have a question for Matt Labash? Submit it here.