Fictional Monday
“Schedule my midlife crisis for March 21st, 2007,” Bernard Scully told his secretary on September 3rd, 2005. “No, I’m not kidding.”
Scully had long wanted a Mercedes both for the fine hood ornament and the thrill of German engineering, and thought that by fulfilling a desire and checking off one of the famous demands of a midlife crisis he could kill two birds with one stone. This was in character, for he had the reputation of exerting the sort of control over his life others dream of. His lists had lists, his plans had plans. It was a joke around the office that he’d scheduled his own circumcision.
Toward the goal of becoming the CEO of a Fortune 500 corporation he read business books voraciously. There were the animal books: “Swimming with the Sharks” and “Taming the Tigers”. There were the etiquette minders: “Using Your Voice to Communicate Authority” and “How to Use Golf to (Pitching) Wedge Your Way to the Corporate Green”.
His philosophy was that your main responsibility in life was to keep yourself happy because happy people don’t cause much trouble. They don’t throw red paint on people for wearing fur and don’t disrupt G-8 summits. They don't abuse their wives or take mind-altering drugs. They aren't extremists of any sort.
Months passed and Scully continued making lists and consuming things in order to make him want to get up in the morning. On the morning of September 3rd his secretary knocked on office door. "It’s time for your mid-life crisis now. What’s it gonna be? Beach bum on Maui?"
He smiled broadly. “Nope. Time for my first Mercedes-Benz.”
At the dealership he caressed the lines of the latest Cabriolet convertible and felt...nothing. He stared at the famous insignia, which looked like the ‘60s peace sign, but felt no peace, no happiness. It was just metal, he thought, morosely. Nothing but sheet metal and car parts that would rust and fill a landfill.
This wasn't in his business books.
“What kind of midlife crisis am I having?” he said to himself. Not even the thought of having an affair or becoming a beach bum lifted his funk. "Affair. Car. Dropping out. What else is there?"
A voice came: the crisis isn't what you haven't gotten, but what you haven't given.
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