Crisis

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Declarative Statement, " It is not my fault, I'm like this. I cannot be penalized for what the world has persuaded me to become. As early as a middle schooler, I found the joys of living vicariously through the amazing varieties of worlds, the books provided. Weren't they from this world? They made me trust in the notion that this was plausible. That though flawed, perfection is a possibility.

And those story tellers with the statutory warning of them being fictional, they create yet

another fanciful faulty illustration to the wide eyed, trusting suckers. Try explaining that to the unsuspecting naivety. Did these story tellers not belong to this same world? By the time one realizes what one has been fed on was nothing but hogwash, it's too late. One is in one's 40s. What in the world can one do about it, eh? Attempt an alteration in perception,

evolve to the new dawned realization? On the contrary, one cultivates dissatisfaction and

resentment toward the world and the people around in general.

For that reason, one does not fit into the carefully constructed image( mind you, 90% of it has been aided by the world), of what the world should be like. Hell! One has transformed into an idealist."

He stopped speaking just to wet his tongue with a sip of his favorite bourbon whiskey from the cut glass I bought him when we were dating. He held the drink in his mouth, relishing the flavor and slowly swallowed it. I could see his Adam's apple move up and down as he did. He stroked his throat absent mindedly with his left hand as the liquid spread warmth in the back of his throat.

I couldn't help but jump at this moment to express my impression which would be disregarded either way, nevertheless I had to endeavor. I couldn't allow for him to have the last say consistently. I calibrated my throat , so that each syllable uttered would taste like nectarines to his ears. Sweetly, I interjected, " don't you think though, my love, that you could possibly be overreacting a tad bit much? It is after all a silly..."

He cut me off, as ever, mid sentence. " Yes, yes, it would definitely appear very juvenile and

frivolous to the pragmatic souls. It is only people, such as I, the sensitive, delicate, unadulterated souls who are deeply affected by the ripples caused by the boorish, chucking stones to agitate the otherwise serene waters." He paused and looked side eyed to examine my face. He continued, anxious that I might meddle again. " Don't you realize how grave this is? How extraordinarily severe this is? What can one do in one's 40s? The world declares mid life crisis onto it. Is it really though? When one is in the splendid 20s, one is merely trying to find ground. It vanishes. It flees , as fast as a gazelle fleeing from its predator. The 20s that is. And during the 30s, one is too preoccupied with establishing oneself to worry about the ideology or the world or the system or the people.

Then arrives the dreaded 40s, with the dawning comprehension that one has lived all this time being indulged in utter baloney. Poppycock. Ludicrousness. And none of it has been real all along ! It has made one don these tinted glasses and envision the sham . Baloney!!

Once again he stopped to take a sip from his glass. I thought better off than to interrupt his

monologue. It didn't matter if I used my sweetest voice, he was not going to hear me . Best, I let him unleash. I watched him get up from the chair and walk to the long rows of books stacked in height orders and serial orders. He ran his pointer habitually down the spine of his treasured leather bound book, ' One flew over Cuckoo's nest' by Ken Kesey.

At times , I would wonder how he might look with a smoking pipe in one hand and his whiskey glass in the other, dressed in a long silk robe, glasses perched on his pointy nose. If I shared this image with him, he would definitely chide me saying that this is exactly what he is talking about , romanticizing based on the influences portrayed by the "world".

He had been a handsome young man when we first met. Towering above the rest, with a

pale complexion and bright intelligent eyes. He had always been attentive and engrossed in

stimulating conversations unlike the men around his age whose only interests were parties, women and getting drunk. I found myself automatically drawn to get acquainted with what he had to say. He belonged to all the groups like a glove. It could have been the physics major's or the literary group or the theatre or the sports, he simply belonged. He could talk about any topic under the sun and hold an audience. This had made a great impression on me.

The clock chimed three quarter of an hour bringing me back from the nostalgic reverie. It was quarter to midnight and suddenly I felt exhausted and slumbersome. It had been a long day planning for tomorrow and organizing things, looking into details so nothing goes awry. My eyes felt droopy and fatigued, as I looked up at him pacing with his glass in one hand and stroking his throat with the other. He seemed like a new kitten intimidated by the owner's pet dog.

"Plus there is so much hullabaloo created around mid-life crisis by this world. It is solely

victimizing the human kind. First, they make one, accept the accompaniments of this so called crisis, it's drama and then they condescend and chastise. It is not forgiving , you know, the world. Also, it looks down upon one who goes through the crisis. I mean, why create it for starters? I do not believe that every single individual goes through it, is there a hard and fast rule? It is fashioned as an incurable disease, for crying out loud. You know what I think?". He suddenly flopped into the chair, " I think that when one enters 40s, one begins to introspect and fathoms and gets connected to oneself, one's true self. Yes! That's precisely what happens. Soon, one comprehends the truth of how the world has been feeding distorted, deceptive ideas all along. One starts to question the authority which obviously the world does not appreciate as it feels threatened. What does the world do? It pins this badge onto the individual. It is not midlife crisis, no! It is existential crisis!" The last few words he uttered were more of a roar which startled me and I got up and rushed to hug him. It is clearly upsetting him more than I had anticipated . Maybe I should cancel the whole thing, maybe it is a bad idea. He doesn't seem ready for this.

The clock on the wall announced midnight and the alarm on my cellphone went off. I reached into my pajama pocket and turned the alarm to snooze. I looked up into his eyes, afraid this might have upset him further. He seemed sad but did not say anything.

" Happy 40th, my darling." I ventured, "so, should I cancel the party?"

" Oh no! Not at all. After all, it's only once a man turns 40."

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