My mid-life crisis hit the day I realized thirty-three was half-way through my life expectancy

Of course technically, having already survived Viet Nam, I should have had a much longer life expectancy than the 66 that was estimated in 1982. But lately it had begun to look like I had seriously over-estimated.

Back then, I’d just been promoted again and found myself in charge of the fastest growth area at the company—computer systems. I knew both accounting and computers which made me a double threat. To keep the Microdata Mini operating at peak efficiency was a fulltime job in itself, but I had a staff of eight since the word processing pool was part of my domain as well. The huge Wang Word Processing System occupied one room while workstations in the next room provide a place for four typists to keep reams of papers flying out of the chain printer and the two daisy wheel printers that clattered all day long.

This promotion required a real celebration. I was now a full partner in the firm. I went out and bought a car. Not just any car, a brand new bright yellow Mustang. I moved to a new apartment, too. It was a loft in a trendy new part of town where I could hold huge parties for young, equally trendy people. There was just one thing missing in my life, and I went hunting for a beautiful, young, and trendy girlfriend.

I had money, a convertible, and a cool apartment. I was teaching an introduction to computing course at a local college, and, hey! I was a nice guy, too. I didn’t smoke. I didn’t drink to excess. Did no drugs and lived a clean, active, Seattle-style life. Eligibility was stamped all over me.

Lacking a few social skills didn’t seem to affect my ability to attract women, so I shopped around for one I thought I could turn into the girlfriend of my dreams. Hope springs eternal.

Hope was her name.

We met at the top of Mt. Si one Saturday afternoon looking out across the lowlands toward Puget Sound. We hiked back down together, had a drink together in North Bend, and spent the night together at my apartment. She was smart, funny, beautiful, and adventurous. And twelve years younger than me. She was finishing her degree in economics at the U next spring and as if that was all the qualifications that were required on either of our parts, she moved in with me within two months.

Having her on my arm at company gatherings added to my esteem among my male co-workers. She liked the gatherings because she was drawn to power like a magnet. Power that comes from money, position, and oh, yes, did I mention money?

Shelly had trouble that last year in school. It seemed her professors were all jerks and she knew more than they did, or knew someone who knew more than they did. The mystique of the college professor was wearing thin, and as her professors came into doubt, so did I. She just wanted out and into the workforce where she could begin to amass her own power. I had no doubts that she would amass power and I arranged to get her an interview at a company we had done some consulting for.

Unfortunately, her boss was a jerk. She (the boss) was constantly dumping blame on Shelly for things she didn’t do, and taking credit for the things she did do. I was concerned for her well-being when she said she couldn’t work there anymore and wanted to quit. What could I say other than that it was up to her and I’d support her decision? She quit and managed to find a job at a local bank. It was a lower position than she was qualified for and her boss was patronizing. It soon became obvious that she should have kept the job with the jerk because this one was not going to give her the challenge and opportunity to advance that she could have gotten at the first job. Why did I tell her to quit?

Did I tell her to quit? Well, I’d support her while she looked for other work. She met people who were powerful, they got her into doors and she left them behind. She loved power. Did I mention that? Power that you get from wealth and position.

Power like my boss’s.

Damn.

It was a big hairy falling out. She said I never understood her. I’d always held her back. I was just plain mean.

Don’t turn me into a martyr. For my part I told her she was a gold-digger, incompetent, and a slut. Besides which, I’d been sleeping with another college student I met in class and didn’t really care what she did.

Except that she backed a truck up to the apartment while I was working one day and emptied the apartment and drove away.

And you know what? I was perfectly fine with that. She’d taken everything; she couldn’t possibly ask me for any more. And she’d been kind enough to leave me my recliner chair, my stereo, and the one piece of artwork that I actually cared about.

I bought a mattress and put it on the floor of my once cool apartment. I didn’t mind so much that she’d taken all my LPs when she left my stereo. After a few weeks I began to slowly acquire the new CD format. I had a girl over occasionally, but no more big parties. I didn’t look at women the same way anymore. I guess you’d say I was jaded. It wasn’t that I didn’t like them, but it didn’t seem they wanted the same things in life that I did, or even the same things from each other.

The more I thought about my life, the more I hated it. When the lease expired, I moved out and found a small furnished room. I took the one picture I had on a wall (now that I’d have gone after if it had disappeared) and my mattress, clothes, and chair and moved. I stuck my Mustang in a garage, and forgot about it.

Well, I didn’t forget; I just ignored it.

I started living a simple life, grew a straggly beard at a time when most of the men in the office were shaving, became an organic vegetarian, and even started wearing jeans to work. I didn’t see any clients anymore. I just lived with the machines. And we were changing over from the big dedicated systems by 1986 to personal computers and networking. The job was changing and I was suddenly feeling very old.

That’s when I discovered what men want from young women.

They want to feel young.

They want to feel that they’ve cheated the clock and that they’ve retained their youth in the face of years. I wasn’t avoiding women, and I wasn’t doing without women in my life. I just discovered that I wasn’t expecting anything from them. It made life easier. As one of the pioneers in business technology adoption, I got to teach a couple of courses at a local college. It was mostly guys and extremely nerdy girls. But occasionally one of those nerds would show up with her hair pulled back and a skirt on, and she’d smile. And it was like the lights came up in the room. I loved being among the college kids, not because I wanted to get laid, but because they were young.

I discovered that there were women in the office that I made it a point to pass each day, just so I could feel my heart speed up a little—that feeling where it is beating up in your throat a little higher than it should. I would pass where someone had just walked by and stop to inhale the fragrance she left behind. And when I did, I walked a little straighter.

I shaved (mostly—all but the mustache) and went back to wearing my suits. I wasn’t mean. I was certainly not going to complicate women’s lives with my advice any more. I’d meet them on a level playing field and we’d deal with each other the way we were. Someday, someplace, I’d find the right one for me—maybe somebody my own age who knew who the Beattles were and what it was like to face the choice of being drafted or enlisting. I instituted the 50% rule. I wouldn’t go out with anyone who was less than half my age.

When I made the rule, it included everyone that it was legal to date.

I quit thinking about it.

Then last spring, I met Riley. Exactly everything I would have wanted at 33 and had sworn off ever since. When I woke up in my hospital bed after “the big one” she was sitting in a chair beside the bed playing on my computer. That’s no small task.

“How’d you get into my computer,” I asked. She looked up at me.

“I turned it on and dragged your finger across the biometric scanner and I was in,” she answered brightly.

“How did you know which finger?” I asked. It is only set to read one fingerprint.

“I had to try them one at a time until I got the right one,” she answered, as if that were the most logical solution. “You’ve only got ten and I only had to try three.”

Memo to self: secure your hands if you are going to be unconscious for a few days.

“How long have I been in here?” I asked.

“Two days.” Maizie! Oh shit.

“I’ve got to get out of here. My poor dog…”

“She’s okay,” Riley said. “I took your hotel key from your pocket and went to walk her and feed her. She’s a sweety.”

“You let a pit bull out of her kennel?” I asked amazed. “Are you crazy?”

“Is that what she is?” Riley asked. “I thought they were bigger. Besides, I just picked up her leash and she started wagging her tail like crazy. When I opened the kennel she ran out and sat down to wait while I fastened it. We talked a lot while we were out walking. I told her you were sick and she’d have to put up with me for a while until you got back. She is so cute. She sleeps on my feet at night.”

“You took her to your room?”

“No, I slept in yours. I figured it was easier that way.”

Resourceful. Intelligent. Likes my dog. What were the other qualifications I wanted? Oh yeah. She’s less than half my age.

“So you want a job,” I said thoughtfully.

“I do,” she answered looking me straight in the eye.

“Do you have a license?”

“You have to work three years before you can get an agency license. I’ve served two under Lars,” she answered.

“I meant a driver’s license,” I said. A woman doesn’t need to have been around the block a few times for me to be interested, but she does need a license.

“Oh, of course.”

“Good. As soon as I can get out of here, your first job is to drive Maizie and me back to Seattle. I’m not leaving my Mustang in Las Vegas. It’s like a bad joke.” She laughed, but nodded her head.

“I couldn’t figure out the Mustang,” she said. “I thought you’d have a Porsche.”

“The difference between Porsches and porcupines is that porcupines have the pricks on the outside,” I said. “I only drive it once a year to come to Las Vegas.”

“Low mileage classic.”

“Until, I’m out, I want you to live in my hotel room, wear my clothes, and feed my dog,” I continued. She looked up at me with a scowl. “I’m kidding about the clothes,” I said. She laughed and squeaked an okay. “When we get back to Seattle, I’ll take you on as an unarmed investigator. But understand this, most of my work is sitting in front of a computer screen researching oddball facts and recovering data from people’s damaged or seized hard drives.”

“I can do that.”

“We’ll see,” I answered. “I will pay you a decent wage—I’ll ask Lars what that is these days—teach you what I know, sponsor you for your license, and help you defend your thesis before Lars. I won’t do your work for you, give you advances on your salary, or listen to stories about your broken heart when some guy dumps you.”

“What makes you think I’m the one who gets dumped,” she asked repositioning herself provocatively in the chair.

“There’s a catch,” I said. Her features straightened and she became serious and if anything a little guarded. I smiled. “I seem to have discovered that I have a weakness that was previously unknown to me. I’m not planning to have another of these episodes, but I could use someone around who knows enough to shove an aspirin in my mouth if I’m having a heart attack. I’m not planning to drive much, so I’ll need someone who can chauffeur me (and Maizie) to the office and appointments. I may even need to have my laundry picked up and groceries delivered. If you can live with the crap side of working for me, I’ll see that you get all the benefits, including work time to write your thesis. Deal?”

Now she jumped up out of her chair, leaned across the bed and kissed me on the forehead. “What more could a girl ask for?” she said. “Deal!”

And what do I get out of it? I asked myself. I get a beautiful woman sitting in the next room. I get to smell her scent in the office. I get to see her smile and appreciate the way she looks. I get to hear her voice on the phone. And it was all strictly business.

What more could I ask for?