Big Daddy P turned 35 last weekend. Holy hell, his life is over.
On the eve of his 25th birthday (a decade ago), he had a certifiable quarter-life crisis. He was all, “What have I done with my life? / Who am I? / Where am I going? / blah, blah, blah.” I was really supportive and kind, probably because we had only been married a short time and were childless. I had all kinds of patience for this kind of stuff back then. I earned a bunch of wifey brownie points for my ability to understand that 25 looked like a big and important number.
In the 10 years that have followed, Big Daddy P has proceeded to have a nervous breakdown before every. single. birthday. “What have I done with my life? / Who am I? / Where am I going? / blah, blah, blah.” Seriously? He’s not even middle-aged yet! Or is he? Whatever. If 40 is the new 30, then 35 is the new 25…oh yeah, 25. Damn.
What is he even talking about anyway? He has a great job, he’s in the best shape of his life (jerk) and he’s married to me! I mean, come on already!
Am I supposed to indulge this birthday crisis thing for the next 50 years? Because honestly, he’s lucky if he can get a, “You do this every year, can you get that booger out of BooBoo’s nose?” outta me.
So Big Daddy P’s life is over until he comes to terms with 35 and then his life will be over as he approaches 36.
Maybe I just don’t understand because I haven’t experienced a birthday nervous breakdown yet. I suppose it’s only a matter of time until I go all cougar-crazy and start flashing truckers.
Anyone out there have experience with premature or mature midlife crisis?