I’ve rarely revealed with this much rapidity but we share a similar sentiment and a twin temperament. We talk work; we talk worries. And we talk women. His arms were folded and his head was bowed as he absorbed the details and processed my assessments. He punctuated my points with bobs of his head.
He looked up. He smiled. And he said, “Mark, I think you’re a bit of a slut.” He crossed his T with the snap of his smile.
“No, man. Not even,” I laughed as I continued, “I just like challenging women who keep my interest. But, I don’t like the ones who cause too much stress.” Our conversation moved to a chat about stress. He’s remodeling his basement. He enjoys the physical expense of the project. I’m not living in abasement but I am dealing with a couple of stressful situations. “I need a project,” I projected. “I’m thinking of taking up boxing.”
“Boxing? Are you serious man?” he chuckled.
“Sure. Ok … I’m thinking of a way to get it out,” I began. “I can’t run. I can’t bike with my foot anymore. And writing isn’t a physical release.” As a kid when I felt angst I ran around the periphery of our house. Now without a physical activity, I feel boxed in. “But I’m not into that whole violence thing, so I’m thinking of just getting a punching bag.” We discussed the merits of boxing and then we exercised our option to move into a different topic.
Yet the topic of how men expel their angst and their aggressions and their anxieties has dogged my mind for a couple of days. I’ve talked about it with a bunch of my buddies in the last couple of days and we’ve all agreed that we have to have an activity. I have a couple of buddies who bike. I have a buddy who has an aquarium. I have a buddy who cross-country skis. 
I have a buddy with model trains. I have a buddy who remodels houses. One buddy creates stain glass windows. I have four buddies who play in bands. Matter of fact, one buddy is playing in a bar tomorrow. He’s a pediatrician and he’s practiced his hobby since his childhood. He plays the trumpet and the band will play Dixieland jazz.
As an aside, a friend of mine offered an amusing statement. She said, “I thought there were only two Irish songs: one fast and one slow.” It’s silly because it rings true. Dixieland jazz tunes all start differently yet seem to evolve into “When The Saints Go Marching In.” I’m certain if I studied the genre I’d appreciate its idiosyncratic attributes, but I’m not that interested. I like my friend; I don’t need to be entertained. I’ll enjoy the fact that he enjoys the act. So I intend to sit at the bar tomorrow and listen to him blow off a little stress.
Now I’m certain that women sometimes feel men blow things out of proportion. I know they think men can be blowhards. Many times a middle aged man will discover that he’s probably blown it. Sometimes he tries to shake things up and usually it all just blows up in his face. And often men will wait for the stressful situation to blow over.
Yet unfortunately a man usually keeps his anxiety suppressed until he can’t endure it and then he blows up. He seeks new to renew. I told my buddy a couple of weeks ago that a man has a few options to shake things up in his life. He can have an affair, but that doesn’t work if he loves his wife. He can have a child because children make everything new but that’s a major commitment at middle age. He can change his career, but that’s just a different ass he has to kiss. He still has to kiss an ass.
In my youth, I listened to the babble about men and midlife crises and I rolled my eyes and I dismissed the issue as blathered bullshit. Last week I woke in the middle of the night and realized I’m not in the middle of my life. I’m over that edge. I’m a diabetic and I’m 45 years old. I am not going to double my days. I can live with that. I’m not idealistic. I am quite realistic.
I assessed my life that night. So far I’ve had a great life filled with great people. I may not have spent my youth serving a great purpose, but I haven’t just wasted space. 
I decided to end a couple of relationships that caused more stress than bore fruit. I decided to nurture a few foundling friendships. Sometimes life is like a speeding train that’s headed toward a wall. I like the notion that we can choose whether to look out a window at the view or review who we’ve chosen as our seatmates. At this part of my life, I like the passengers in my compartment.
I’ve heard a few grumblings that I’m not posting enough. And I’ve heard a few grumblings that I’m offering more observation than perception. I don’t always have something to offer. Yet I don’t offer contrition. I’m doing the best I can. And that’s all a man can do.
December 15, 2007
