Wading in a Pond of Fear
I am the emotional manifestation of stitches barely holding a life together—symmetrical and tidy on the outside, battered and bruised within, like a foot inside a ballet slipper.
Lord knows I know how to look the part: my suits are carefully tailored, the dimples in my cashmere ties are deep, and you can see your reflection in my shined loafers. It’s equal parts vanity and cloak, and beneath it lies a cavern of fear.
There are parts of my personality that I cannot reconcile. On one hand, I am dangerously immune to seeing risk, and on the other, I’m terrified of failing. Nothing keeps me up late at night more than the thought of being a failure in life.
And my fears are as indiscriminate as they are expansive. Does anyone else worry about not having a second home in Jackson Hole, or becoming a member of… oh, I don’t know… Augusta, Cypress, or Seminole? Or maybe that age-old fear that’s nearly impossible to understand—the fear of success? Yeah, I know… it’s weird as hell.
What happens if I actually get all this “stuff?” Am I smart enough to keep it? Do I possess the discipline to avoid turning into Captain Jackass? And, maybe most importantly, do I even want any of it?
My goals have changed massively in the last few years. Truthfully, all I want is a quiet place in the mountains to write, a pipe full of tobacco, and cashmere pajamas that I rarely get out of.
And a good dog.
And a regular 10 a.m. tee time in the following foursome:
A jokester. I need a guy who can tell a funny story.
An intellect. I need a guy who can recite poetry.
A degenerate. I need a guy who I can live vicariously through.
And no neighbors. I’ve grown weary of most humans.
And never live anywhere above 78 degrees, which necessitates a “four seasons” lifestyle, which looks like this:
Spring: Somewhere in Dixie, on the Atlantic, where Spanish moss sways from two-hundred-year-old oaks. If I had it my way, there’d be a few old-timers from Peachtree Golf Club who I’d have coffee with every morning—the quintessential Southern gentlemen, replete with elegant, syrupy Coca-Cola accents.
Summer: Rocky Mountains. I see myself in an old Land Rover without a top, fly fishing where I please, and dropping by Aspen for the Ideas Festival, Sun Valley for the Writers Conference, and Deer Valley for the Music Festival. All I’d need is a tent, sleeping bag, and my typewriter. And a few Grateful Dead tapes; definitely 3/29/90 … “Eyes of the World” with Branford Marsalis on the sax is brilliant.
Fall: New York City. Is there anything better? Of course there isn’t. I see myself taking walks through Central Park in corduroys, enjoying overpriced coffee in Tribeca, and smoking cigars on the University Club roof with a scarf around my neck.
Winter: Cat Cay Island. I want to wake up to morning swims in placid turquoise water, get nine holes in without using a driver, go spearfishing for lobster, and live in a hammock with my books. I want to spend the winter reading barefoot in the Bahamas. Is that too much to ask? I don’t think so. I want to live amongst stacks of used books on every wall, more than I could ever read.
But on a more “real” level, where I’m not driving around the mountains in cashmere pajamas, I worry about sending my kids through college. A year at Yale is up to almost $90,000. In what universe does that make sense? When I graduated high school in 1997, it was $30,000. Adjusted for inflation, it’s $45,000. How in the hell did it double? And don’t they have a forty BILLION dollar endowment?
I worry about my aging parents. I managed to go forty years without taking their morbidity into consideration, and one day I woke up to the realization that they won’t live forever. Talk about a left hook to the cranium. It may sound naïve, but it’s the truth.
I also worry about aging. In addition to a receding hairline (don’t forget I’m notoriously vain), parts of my body ache regularly. The highlight of my day is waiting for Advil to kick in.
And I’m only 45 years old: not too old, not too young—trapped in all the insecurities of midlife with little to show for it. I feel like I’ve slowly waded into a pond of fear.
When I was ankle deep, I was blissfully unaware. As long as I could go to half a dozen Braves games a season, take in a few live shows, and squeeze in a ski trip, I was living the American Dream and didn’t know it, but I waded in deeper; oblivious that the walls of reality were closing in on me.
Before I knew it, I was knee deep: married with kids and a mortgage due on the twelfth of every month. Life was no longer a moveable feast. For starters, hangovers became a pain in the ass. What used to be solved with a patty melt plate at Waffle House now took a day or two of sleep and several Tylenols.
The kids got older and the house felt smaller. Something was sucking the joy out of life, but I couldn’t place it. Was it something as simple as aging? Does everyone go through this? I didn’t know.
And then one day I was waist deep and middle aged—a term that’s recklessly thrown around by adults. And no one under forty “gets it,” until they do. I could see the sun bouncing off the grim reapers scythe, and it was terrifying.
And nothing let up. There wasn’t a pause button. Everyone kept aging; my parents, myself, and my kids. What were once adorable cuddle bugs who thought I hung the moon were gangly teenagers with opinions.
I was nearly neck deep in this rancid pond, battling leviathan tentacles hellbent on dragging my future under. Worse, I was getting used to the filth.
If a man is lucky, he gets to a point where he realizes there’s a window of agency left in his life, and if he doesn’t take advantage of it, he may miss his last chance at freedom.
I picture two trains moving in opposite directions on the same set of tracks. There’s a brief moment when they pass, and inside that moment there’s an opportunity to jump from one train to the other, effectively course correcting his life.
And if he can muster up the courage to jump, and if he’s willing to accept the consequences, he can take on a new life, but not necessarily a different life. He’s going to bring all his problems with him, as this isn’t an exercise in relinquishing responsibilities, but he’s going to give himself another bite at the apple.
He accepts there are no guarantees except for the inevitable disappointments had he chosen to live as a coward, choosing not to make the leap.
It took until I was neck deep to make the leap. And right now, I am halfway between trains, hoping I don’t get professionally decapitated. Make no bones about it—it’s terrifying.
Now, of course, as I’ve written in the past, there are guys who somehow make all the right decisions. They made straight A’s, graduated from Ivy League schools, and followed a linear path to success. I am not one of them.
For reasons unbeknownst to me, I chose the path of most resistance; albeit not consciously. I can honestly say I did my best with the tools I had. And now, on account of being beat to the ground in middle age, I have more tools, and I aim to use them correctly.
I may have mastered the art of looking the part, but beneath the suits are the emotional equivalent of bruised toes and stress fractures. I am that battered foot in the ballet slipper. If only the aches and pains were physical, but they’re not.
I hope I make it on the other train. I hope I don’t humiliate myself, again. I hope I get another bite at the apple.
