There’s a whole collection of cliches that can be used to describe what happens when people of a certain age – particularly men – reach a moment in life when they begin to evaluate their lot in life.
Some of those cliches call it “midlife crisis”. I guess, because those people who subscribe to the idea believe these moments of self-reflection, questioning and doubting rear their ugly heads in and around that stage.
It might make sense on the surface, but for some of us, there’s no crisis. There’s no critical crossroads requiring intervention or fire suppression.
No, for some of us … or for one of me … it’s an age when the re-emergence of freedom becomes evident. It’s the age where some of us have managed to get our offspring to that momentus dawn of adulthood and their own independence. An age where those precious legacies no longer rely on us for the basics of life – and have the bravado to pontificate that they can “look after themselves.”
Freedom – and the familiar aroma of adventure. Adventure, or middle-aged lunacy; either way, it’s the point where you actually ask yourself “how many moments are left in life when I’m scared to death.”
A time when, for some of us, the road less traveled seems like a good idea.
This is the ongoing story of my road.
