Midlife Message

            It has to be 15, maybe 20 years ago that my wife told me something I’ve never forgotten:  “You know, it’ll be hard for people to tell when you’re having a midlife crisis because you’ve always had a sports car.”

            I took assurance from that for years, but as I sit here actually at midlife (assuming I make it to 100), that statement makes me chuckle.  Not because my wife was wrong—she wasn’t.  In our years together I’ve gone through a Firebird, a Camaro, two Corvettes and a late-model GTO, so my recent yearning for the upcoming supercharged Camaro ZL1 strikes no one as particularly mid-lifey.  It just turns out that a succession of fast cars, by itself, doesn’t preclude other observably dumb mid-life behavior.

            In other words, I’m pretty sure people noticed anyway.  Oh well.

            Okay, so that long string of fun cars put me in fine shape to pine for a post-50^th birthday Camaro without raising eyebrows.  But thinking about all those cool cars has revealed a truth about my life that I’m only just now beginning to appreciate: With the exception of those cars, I’ve really been quite a wallflower.

It’s true.  Ironic that I could be so expressive and “out there” with my rides, yet so complacent in other areas.  Too often, I’ve been more of a blender-inner; more Clark Kent than Superman.  Curious.

I had plenty of time to ponder this as I drove my family home from our Disneyland vacation last week.  Driving eastward on I-10, the traffic surrounding me suddenly took on a curious aspect.  Looking around, I discovered the cause:  We were encircled by late-model Toyota Camrys.  There was one ahead of me, one at about two o’clock, another beside me, and yet another a couple lanes over.

I mean no offense to Camry owners.  It’s a perfectly sensible, serviceable car—the right tool for many a basic transportation job.  And Toyota obviously sells the heck out of them.  But seeing four so close together—followed by another identical pair just a mile or so down the road, believe it or not—had me flashing back to that scene in Star Wars: Episode II – Attack of the Clones where the camera pans over that vast sea of identical, biologically engineered storm troopers.

The rugged individualist in me swelled with pride that I, by golly, did not drive a beige, white or silver sedan.  But just as I was getting smug, I remembered my nice, safe career.  I remembered the white walls in our home that my wife’s been begging me to paint, the relative sameness of the last several years, and the fact that our family’s just-completed Disney trip was the first truly “new” thing we’d done together in ages.

With a jolt, it occurred to me: All too often, I’m more Camry than Camaro.

            Not that everyone has to be a Camaro, a Corvette, a Lambo or a Ferrari.  “We can’t all be heroes,” said Will Rogers, “because somebody has to sit on the curb and applaud when they go by.”  So maybe it’s okay with some folks if they’re the ones who sit on the curb.  Maybe it’s okay for them to be a Camry.

            But I don’t think that’s for me.  In fact, I know it’s not.  Irrespective of one’s budget, it’s always possible to choose exciting over dull.  Even if it’s just paint color, you can do it.  See, my true self, I think, has always been the guy who bought those fun cars.  And now, at 50, I want to take more cues from that true self; I want to make it my mission to be that guy all the time, in every area.  I don’t want to sit on the curb.

            Legendary auto writer David E. Davis Jr., when he founded Automobile magazine years ago, made a promise to all future readers.  His car mag, he said, would feature “no boring cars.”  What if each of us resolved, in like fashion, “No boring life?”  What if we traded in our inner Camry for something memorable, moving, motivating?

           

            Chevrolet, if you’re listening, I’d like to order either a Victory Red or Synergy Green Camaro ZL1 once they’re available.  Put black stripes on it, too.  And Rob, if you’re listening, live so as to be a fitting driver for such a car.  Crisis, schmisis.