Everyone breaks down between the ages of 30 and 45. Smarter people that went to college for many more years than I did will define a midlife crisis as occurring between the ages of 45 and 64. But they are wrong. That is a two-thirds life crisis, an admittedly less catchy moniker. No one is living until 128 years old, at least not in this millennium. Mathematically, the midlife crisis is far more likely to occur between the ages of 30 and 45.
Which makes sense, because nothing good happens once you turn 30. It is no coincidence that some of the world’s most horrific events were concocted by people in their 30’s. Jon Lennon thought “Hey, I’ll release an album with Yoko Ono!”, Michael Jordan wanted to play baseball, and Henry Winkler jumped over a shark. The popular gospel of the twentysomething/sitcom, Friends, even had an entire episode dedicated to the gut-wrenching experience of each character’s respective 30th birthday.
Oh, and all of your bodily functions peak before 30 too. Even biology is against you.
If you are approaching 30 and not among the odd breeds of people that enjoy aging, your head may already be spinning. There are lots of realizations that need to be accepted: The time ahead of you on this planet has dwindled. You are no longer a spry version of yourself. Going to bed by 9 pm suddenly starts to feel good. Plans a younger you made to travel the world, start a business, or fulfill childhood dreams never materialized. All of your youthful exuberance has morphed into anger and uncertainty as you stare down the anxiety-provoking black hole of life’s many impossibly complicated “what-ifs?”. Despite learning a great deal about the ways of the world, you somehow have never felt more lost. You respond by making reckless decisions because you fear there is only so much time left to make such decisions before submitting yourself to the reality of obsessing over retirement plans (like giving up basketball for the relaxed life of an average minor league baseball player).
Our society is frightened by teenagers running amuck in their neighborhood or elderly persons in positions of power, and rightfully so. But I am most afraid of encountering a person with an established midlife crisis. You can at least envision what a teenager or elderly person will do, but a midlife crisis is like attaching a rocket to a headless chicken. It cannot form coherent thoughts, stubbornly zipping from one bad idea to the next. Each rocket chicken will have a different trajectory, so it’s impossible to predict what direction their crisis will lead them. However, you can safely assume that you will be asked to accompany the chicken to Vegas in a new sports car. These people are not to be trusted.
Namely, myself.
I was about to turn 33, which is the worst year of the 30s. You are old enough to qualify for the “mid-30s” bracket but are still young enough to also be admitted to the “early 30s” club. Not wanting to appear old, you claim the early 30s to anyone that asks (and also enjoy speaking in generalities to keep your real age shrouded in mystery). But you know better because you know math: 33 is closer to 35 than it is 30. This is a small crisis in its own right.
My hips, knees, and liver were daily reminders that time had begun to chase me down. Then my brain started to chime in with unwelcome signs of aging or, more accurately, forgot to chime in. Why am I in this room? That conversation I had with my boss where he told me to not forget the important report? I, uh, forgot the important report. Did we meet last weekend and have a really good conversation? Of course we did! How could I not remember that exciting exchange of dialogue? Who are you again?
I started showing up to more late night parties. Not to get turnt, but to inform the hosts that some of us are trying to get some sleep and would appreciate if they turned the music down. I may or may not have used the words “call” and “the police.” I do not possess a lawn, but if I did, I would be asking you to promptly remove yourself from it.
This is why most men blow tons of money on fancy sports cars – they want to drive faster so that time cannot catch them. No one wants to transform into a crotchety old man or, worse, their father. They try their best to escape to another reality where they are unflappable in every way. BMW should just change their slogan to “Drive a Beemer and be the coolest, hippest person around.” But Father Time is Carl Lewis, and Carl Lewis never loses. Not even to German engineering.
I did not have the desire, nor was I in the financial position, to spend gobs of cash on a car that I would inevitably fill with sand and drive somewhat responsibly. A stereotypical male midlife crisis was not in the cards for me.
But I was enduring a crisis all the same. Summer was approaching, and it was time to shed all of my neoprene and surf until I was covered in rashes, wax, and the sun’s cancerous rays (ALSO A GROWING CONCERN!). My current everyday board, a V2 rocket from Lost with domesticated dimensions (since I was a little, ahem, older) was growing yellow and not feeling as springy as it once did. Surely, this was not a case of an aging operator’s error. It was the equipment’s fault. The time for a new ride had come.
The search for a new board was a lot like modern dating. I chatted online with lots of eligible foam ladies, asking them questions about their personalities, favorite places to go, and what their dimensions were. When finding Mrs. Right, it was very important to me that she was DTF (down to float).
I swiped right on tons of boards, but in the end only went out with one: The Disco from Sharp Eye. She checked all the boxes: a local that liked long walks down the line, had a phat booty packed into a tight glass job, and was easy to ride. I was already really enjoying my V2 that had similar traits, so this would make for a nice upgrade.
While I waited for The Disco to get dressed and ready at the factory, I chose to not deactivate my surfboard Tinder account. I already had a perfectly good board coming over later and did not need an additional suitor to complicate matters. But, I still enjoyed scrolling through to see what other talent was out there. As the creepy old man saying goes, “It never hurts to look.” A phrase that has never steered any man wrong, ever. Certainly not a mindset that leads to trouble. Nope. Never. Impossible.
Not even a week into my new commitment with Sharp Eye went by before I found another hot, single board online. It was one of the sexiest pieces of fiberglass I had ever laid eyes on. I wanted to take it home to meet my parents, then do unspeakable acts with it. The ass? Phatter. The shape? Faster and allowing easier access to waves than the Sharp Eye. Was she DTF? At 27 liters of volume packed into a 5’2 frame, she was definitely DTF. The aptly named Fling from Superbrand became my new obsession.
Despite the Disco being a small wave shortboard, I imagined the two of them together as a deadly combo. The Fling could be used on those smaller 1-3+ days, while the Disco would take over once things got a bit larger. If it was even at 3 feet, I had steamy dreams of them fighting over which one of them I would ride first.
“BUT WHY NOT BUY A DIFFERENT BOARD?!”, you are probably crying at your financial advisor. “Then you can ride MOAR WAVES!” In retrospect, this makes perfect sense. But I had already fallen too deeply in love to consider any other options.
I had stumbled into another common midlife crisis male trope: the need for multiple women. The Disco is a fantastic board worthy of anyone’s undying adulation. But…what if I was missing out on something? What if it was not going to be the perfect marriage I had envisioned? Should I confine myself to one shortboard for the rest of my life? What if the Disco brings over her new hot friend that totally digs me? What if I log on to the internet and am bombarded by all the hot, local boards in my area that are dying to meet me? Am I just supposed to say NO to these things?
My relationship with the Disco had just begun, and already I was having a mental affair with another board. Why settle for one board when I could have both? I felt dirty.
The midlife crisis took hold. “DO ALL THE YOUTHFUL THINGS WHILE YOU STILL CAN!” it yelled, handing me a Natural Light and a bong fashioned from an apple. “YOLO! Kids still say YOLO, right? Whatever, Drake is still cool. You know what I mean. Have a steamy romp with as many boards as you can, while you still can.”
I have always been relatively smart about my spending. I do not need many possessions, so maturity usually reigns me in when I see something shiny, reminding me that this object is unnecessary.
Counterpoint: fuck that guy! This was no time for maturity. I only have so many years left where I can surf smaller boards like these before my muscles disintegrate. I wanted to stick my feet on as many tiny, pretty young things that let me surf waves as long as I possibly could. I should have both boards. No – I DESERVE to have both boards.
I slid into the Fling’s DMs. “Girl, you up?”
“They just finished glassing me at the factory in Carlsbad,” she responded, seductively rubbing her deck with a microfiber cloth. “Come and get me, big boy. I’ve got a 5 fin setup, but I’m best when I’m thrusting…I mean, best used as a thruster.”
I came quickly…to my wallet and filled out all of my credit card info. She was mine.
That summer was incredible. As long as there was a tiny bump in the ocean, I was out there riding said bump. It was the most I had surfed, and the most fun I have had while surfing, since I was a teenager with infinite time. I surfed so much and with so much disregard for my wellbeing that my right shoulder gave out, succumbing to impingement and keeping me out of the water for the next 6 months. Was this a jealous act from the Disco? I wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter, because the fun I had far outweighed the pain of not being able to put on a T-shirt without my wife’s help.
The boards are now the Ponch and Jon of my quiver, but with somehow whiter smiles. I highly recommend both of them. Not the shoulder impingement, though – if you see that in a local shop, keep on walking. And if you see shops selling bodily harm in the window, perhaps you should consider moving to another city.
On its face, it was an innocent purchase that harmed no one except my bank account (and maybe my wife, who I always have to convince that more boards are good and no, the older ones are not going away. No, I don’t have a problem. I am not a hoarder, I’m a collector). But I struggle with the same feelings my German sports car driving, infinite corporate ladder climbing brethren have. They realize that life is fleeting and there is only so much time to experience vigorous adventures. The need to capitalize while you still can is very real. 20 years from now, barring some insane yoga regimen, I doubt my lower back will be able to withstand the mediocre maneuvers I currently torque through.
There is a philosophical theory that humans experience time logarithmically, meaning we perceive time in proportion to the amount of time we have already lived through. To a 5-year-old, each year is 20% of their life, and therefore a year would feel longer than it would to a 20-year-old, as that is only 5% of their life. Our perception of time accelerates as we get older, leading us to the idea that time is slipping away and that we should desperately seek sports cars or secretaries or botox or drug-fueled vision quests in the desert or whatever to feel younger. I bought some surfboards. Not too bad, all things considered. But time feels like it is slipping away nonetheless. No number of surfboards will ease the anxiety of knowing my lifetime wave count is finite, but they certainly make the countdown a lot more fun.