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I’ve been “retired” for a few years now. The end to my tenure in corporate IT came abruptly. 20 years I’d toiled in that field. It began joyously, as new things do. I learned quickly, and demonstrated aptitude. I’d switch employers a few times. First, due to the company failing. Again, to seize an opportunity. Finally, to be closer to home in anticipation of the birth of my first child. The final role was the best compensated, in spite of being a step down in title. It began well enough. While never ascending out of that position, I received favorable reviews and pay increases. Five years, I was there. The newness wore off, and for much of the time, I worked for a paycheck. The expecations were reasonable, the work not arduous. Opportunity was there to learn and advance. Learning came, advancement didn’t. Although comfortable, the work was not stimulating. I felt stagnant, unmotivated. The desire to do this kind of work had waned well before accepting this job. But the pay was always good, the demand for my talent high. So I was comfortable with my money and security. The fact I wasn’t happy was easy to dismiss. People aren’t supposed to be happy at work, I reasoned. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be work. So I drudged on. 

I celebrated the birth of my two children during this time. No need to find fulfillment in career, when parenthood proved so fulfilling. Plus the pay and security were nice things for a family. My wife also worked in corporate IT. Her pay and security were even better than mine. So our needs were met, and then some. We lived the lives expected of us, though no arm-twisting was required. We had a mortgage, but no other debt. We ate well, and enjoyed frequent but modest travel. That second child, however, was not a good sleeper. Hence, I was not a good sleeper. This is a phase all parents endure. But at some point, I felt my extreme fatigue was not normal. Multiple doctors failed to find the cause. My work performance was slipping. I could not focus on anything, existing in a zombie-like state. But I continued to show up at my comfortable, secure, well compensated job, and collected those comfortable paychecks. Since our needs were met, and our wants within reason, that money accumulated, providing an additional dimension of security. Then one day… 

The company changed ownership. With that came new management, new expectations, and new budgets. Statistics were examined, revealing my drop in productivity. Upper management didn’t want me any longer. At least that’s the impression I received as my manager and I sat in the Human Resources office one Friday afternoon. There I was presented with a document stipulating the improvements I’d need to make should I wish to remain employed. I understood my pay was contingent upon services rendered, and agreed they were not getting their money’s worth. I smiled, signed the paperwork, and assured them that I would do my best. I meant that sincerely. Yet the assurance was made knowing the best I was then capable of might buy me another month or two. I left the office for the weekend, a feeling of despair my companion for the short ride home. Within minutes of discussing this with my spouse, she suggested I quit. Or maybe she asked me to. It was such a radical action, yet so very logical. Taking control of the one thing I could in this situation, I typed out my letter of resignation.

The plan was to take some time off, spend the summer with the kids, and fix my health. Also, I needed to figure out my next move, career-wise. Because through all of this, I had come to accept that I wasn’t suited for the field I’d left. I am a life long do-it-yourselfer, thus I gave handyman work a try. While I enjoyed the actual work, I didn’t like traveling to the sites. Or estimating jobs. Or marketing myself. Perhaps those were just excuses, hiding the fact that I selected that path only because it felt convenient. Another attempt was made at starting an online store for a product I could make myself. My capstone project in college was an online storefront. I had fancied doing this on the side, but never decided what I’d sell. Well I settled on a product (keyword: settled). I did a lot of the groundwork, but never followed through. Failure to follow through having happened so many times before, it was practically my default. I emphasize this, as an eventual ADHD diagnosis provided an explanation for all of those false starts. 

I’m now successfully treating the ADHD, and working on two more related conditions which I believe all conspired to get me out of that dreadfully excellent career. Not every day is good, but they outnumber the bad ones. I’m ready – yearning, in fact – to go back to work. Thankfully, I’ve learned a lot about myself and my family through this all. One thing is that we don’t require two large paychecks. So why not make the move to doing something I enjoy, such as writing? Well that long history of failures is one reason. Yes, I’ve accepted that much of that was beyond my control, but my confidence is still weak. Plus, it would take time, years maybe, to generate an income from writing. It would be nice to make some money again. Oh, lest I not forget; I’m most qualified to work an IT job. My degree would otherwise go to waste. Yes, I can talk myself out of any good idea. But here’s the kicker: If I were to suffer just a few more years in a cubicle, we could pay off our home mortgage. We’d be completely debt-free. Would it not be worth just a few years of indentured servitude to a corporation in exchange for eliminating 13 or so years of being slave to the credit union? Very compelling indeed. Yet it’s a slippery slope. I’ve only been making token contributions to my retirement for the last 3 years. Logically I’d next want to fortify my financial future. Not to mention, my kids are really smart. They’ll need some serious help if they go the college route. 

It’s just a few more years, I tell myself. Like that “one final job” the big time art thief rationalizes will set him up for life. Then he can go clean, live the straight life. You’ve seen the movies, you know the trope. Why would I compare a life of “working for the man” to a life of crime? Why would I not?

Congratulations to me. I’ve made it through my first year of blogging. Setting out, I had no expectation on frequency. I had hoped to have posted more than I did. It would be folly to ruminate on failing to meet a self-imposed, yet unestablished expectation. Especially about something that matters not. Nevertheless, as an aspiring writer, I felt it important to understand why I was writing little (and posting less) for the blog. While I haven’t gone looking for the answer, I was receptive when it came to me: 

I am not especially motivated by the blog’s theme, “What life has taught me.” 

At least not anymore. Starting a blog is something I saw as a logical step in growing as a writer. It was not something I wanted to do for its own sake. I’ve been blogging to support my writing, rather than writing to support my blog. Yet the blogging experience has been good! Starting the blog was by no means a mistake, and I plan to continue and – yes – grow it. The mistake, as I now see it, was settling on a theme too soon, or maybe at all. I follow blogs that cover specific topics. And some that are broad in scope. Both are valuable, and enjoyable. 

When I set out, I understood that a good way to build a readership is to be consistent. A consistent theme to draw in and keep readers, I saw as essential. As I tend to do, I selected a theme based on what I had been writing about in the moment. In life, I’ve made so many decisions this way. They tend to fall apart long-term. I spent close to 20 years focusing my education and vocation in Information Technology. It’s what I was interested in at the time. That one kind of worked out, but I confess that I spent way too long in that field after I stopped enjoying it. While basing my entire blog around my life lessons was not conducive to me putting my writing out there, the theme did work. Essays for “What life has taught me” has done more for me than it could possibly do for any of its readers. Often, I’m organizing my thoughts in real time as I prepare a piece. Like dandelion seeds in a summer’s breeze, my writings always find their own way as they develop – often arriving far from their intended destination. Therefore, the bulk of my work fails to fit in the box to which they are assigned. 

Going forward, my posts will no longer adhere to a specific focus. I have a series I’m working on at the moment. As before, it is narrative non-fiction. However, the emphasis is more about the story itself, than the outcome. The theme tying the essays together appears to be specific on first glance. Really, it’s just a way for me to generate some interest around otherwise bland short story anecdotes. Interest for the reader, and also for me, as I select which bits I wish to share. I have a few pieces in progress. They may constitute the entire series, or it may grow exponentially. I’ll also be throwing in bits of random writing along the way, including fiction.

This very piece you are reading is the quintessential “What life has taught me” post. So in recap, I’ve learned that I settle on things too soon. Almost serially. I’m not sure how I’ll prevent that going forward, but it seems this realization is a good first step. Also, most things can be salvaged. Whether they are worth salvaging is something else. I’m pretty good at identifying failures, and quitting. But there’s a lot to be said for knowing when and how to pick up the pieces, and move forward.

Note: This is not a researched based psychological paper. It should not be considered advice (I don’t offer advice – ever). I acknowledge there are other factors not discussed here which may contribute to what is known as the midlife crisis. The text to follow is a semi-satirical view of how I view it with regards to my own life. Feel free to call me out if you smell BS, and likewise add your own thoughts and experiences if so inclined. Enjoy!

It was first suggested to me that I might be in a state of midlife crisis several years ago. Still in my corporate days, my boss (who himself may have been experiencing a low-level crisis) pointed out that arriving at my desk one morning via a fresh Landyachtz Dinghy was a likely indicator. While I had impulsively returned to skateboarding some years prior, this moment was indicative of the fact that I was now all-in. During this time I had some great fun, and my skills were improving. A couple of sprained wrists, however, taught me that in my forties, I’m not able to recover from an injury as I had done in my teens. Finding myself unable to perform everyday tasks without pain several months after my latest injury convinced me that the risk wasn’t worth the reward. As to the question of midlife crisis, this certainly didn’t fit the profile: I wasn’t attempting to reinvent my persona, after all. I was merely revisiting an activity I very much enjoyed during a previous time in my life. Growing my hair to my shoulders, and bringing a length of rolling plywood everywhere certainly can’t be compared to the comedic trope of a toupee and a Corvette.

Prior to the skateboarding, I had resumed motorcycling. Motorcycles were my life during my entire twenties, and an affair that was a daily part of my life spanning two decades. I ate, breathed, and slept motorcycles. Not to say that I slept much. The occasional visitor to my spartan bachelor pad could often find a vintage cycle undergoing various stages of repair. It’s presence in my living room as much a part of the decor as the hand-me-down sofa. During that time, I’d rubbed elbows with reality TV stars such as the late Indian Larry, Dave Perewitz, father and son Teutul, and others. I was at Danbury CT’s legendary Marcus Dairy meet every Sunday morning, regardless of how many fermented ounces of cheap poison I’d consumed at the rough-and tumble Our Place Cafe the evening prior. Living just six miles from the custom motorcycle industry icon that employed me, my ride home often took me the long way, stretching the commute up to 80 miles. I rode year round, those cold weather rides being understandably shorter. In spite of my love for motorcycles and motorcycling, circumstances changed, and practicality ended the activity (I’d already been burnt out on “the scene” for some time). After a move out of town, I began carpooling to work. While I took pleasure in each motorcycle ride, setting out solely for pleasure did not interest me. So the cycle sat in the garage, and fell into disuse. When a co-worker inquired if I’d sell it, I considered doing so, and threw out a figure. This led to a deal, and motorcycling was out out of my life for a time. Nearly a decade later, I found myself in another long commute, and considered using a motorcycle, as I had been racking up a lot of miles, and wanted to prolong the life of my car. This rationale had me perusing the classifieds, and in an unlikely turn of events, I found the very motorcycle I had last owned, available for purchase. And when I say very, I mean the exact one. Some things had been changed, but the custom paint job airbrushed by a friend eliminated any question about the machine’s provenance – even from the craigslist photo. When faced with a once in a lifetime opportunity, you must act, or resign yourself to wondering what might have been. I opted to act, and was on my way to resuming a two-wheeled commute. I’d found my way back to the activity of motorcycling, yes. Without realizing it, however, I’d also returned to the pursuit of tinkering and customization. It began innocuously enough: The bike had traveled only about a thousand miles while absent from me, and needed a refresh due to neglect. Tires, fluids, seals – that sort of thing. But I took it further. When I’d owned this machine the first time around, I didn’t have the money to realize my vision for it. So I did what I could. With more financial resources, I found myself able to finally create the machine I’d set out to do almost twenty years prior. It was my obsession for quite some time. The motorcycle as an object was justifiable. The obsession with it was another matter altogether. Was this a sign of possible midlife crisis? Hmm… Naw, couldn’t be. I was just enjoying a pastime.

Other interests have prompted me to quietly question if all this might truly be indicative of a midlife crisis. The resolute answer to these questions came to me recently, upon defining for myself what a midlife crisis actually is. That definition is the topic for another post I’m brewing, so I’ll give the short answer here: I believe that when someone loses connection with his identity, and this state is brought into focus by some change in circumstances, there exists the potential for panic to ensue. Culture targets the male persona, but I don’t believe the midlife crisis is thus limited. Our relative insecurity as males, however, does make our coping strategies more conspicuous. Regardless, the midlife crisis is an attempt (successful or not) to deal with the sudden realization that one has lost touch with ones self. Thus in my own case, I can state with confidence that I’m not going through a midlife crisis. Not just yet, at least. I’m not in denial, I simply don’t feel the circumstances are there. While I’m at the right age, my children are still young, and I’m deep in parent mode, providing me with an external (but very important) identity. I’m not presently wrapped up in a career, and even when I was, my vocation was never my life. At age 48 I’m still trying to discover who I am, but feel no concern about it. I do accept that if my marriage were to end, or when my kids no longer need me, I’m likely going to feel the impact of having no clear individual purpose in life. And that’s where I feel the midlife crisis could become a reality. Until then, I’m going to enjoy my fortunate position, be the best partner and father I can be, and hopefully discover who I am along the way.

Check out my luxury car!

I see your raised eyebrows, it’s alright. Without context, I would surely react the same. This essay is not about flaunting my dope ride. It’s about defining what luxury means to me, without the influence of Madison Ave. 

So how did I come to consider a 19 year old base model economy car as a luxury? First, I should point out that this is a second vehicle in my household. At my house, we’ve designed a life that requires just one car. The second vehicle, therefore, is a bit indulgent.

OK, sure. A solid middle class life in America affords some comfort. Why not own something a little newer or (ostensibly) nicer? I certainly did prior to inheriting this car, and so I digress to the story of how the Honda came into my life: A short time after my second child was born, my mother voluntarily gave up driving. Her car was the Honda you see here. My parents purchased it new in their retirement. It was always garaged, and dealer serviced to the “severe duty” schedule stipulated by the manufacturer, as it was mostly city driven. At that time, the car was fourteen years old, and had 70,000 miles. It was in need of a timing belt (twice overdue because of age), rear struts, and the driver’s side door wouldn’t lock with the key. Plus there were some cosmetic issues. My mother offered this car first to my siblings and I. We all declined, so she then found a neighbor who was interested in it, and I approved of the transaction. He subsequently backed out. So I decided I’d help my mom by making the repairs, and selling the car for her. I didn’t really want to do this, as my own car was desperately overdue for some deferred maintenance and repairs (did I mention there was a new baby in the house?). While it was within the scope of what my skills can handle, I was planning to pay a mechanic more than my car was worth to get it up to par. I didn’t like the idea of doing that, but I liked the car, and it made sense to keep it. So at this time, I realized I could get moms car up to par in a weekend, and then drive it (on her plates and insurance) while I took my sweet time preparing my own car. Put another way, I’d fix her car in exchange for using it on loan. 

So I did exactly that. And the little Honda, which hadn’t been up to freeway speeds for the eight years since my dad died, got better and better with use. In fact, it began to grow on me. Finally, I realized the easiest path for me might be to keep the Honda (it was offered as a gift, initially), and sell my Volvo which was approaching 200,000 miles – something no amount of maintenance and repair was going to change. It turned out that a turbocharged Volvo station wagon with the sport appearance package was not difficult to sell – even with issues – and I put a tidy sum in my pocket as well. I took the all too rare (for me) path of making my life easier. Hooray for good decisions!

So this unlikely choice of car ended up teaching me several things:

• Immediately, I discovered I don’t like tinted windows. The previous owner of my Volvo was some kind of currency or commodities trader in Boston, and apparently liked to travel incognito. It wasn’t a particularly dark shade, but combined with black interior, made the car gloomy. I never realized this until driving the Honda with its light grey interior, and clear glass.
• Excessive power tends to bring out a version of myself which is not who I aspire to be. With less than half the power in the same-sized car, there is only one way to drive the Civic, and that’s sensibly. At this point in my life, I’m good with that.
• Even with its impeccable service history, the Honda has actually had a greater number of issues in the 21,000 miles I’ve owned it than the Volvo did in the 70k I’d put on it. That said, everything on the Honda was both simple, and inexpensive to diagnose and repair. And it never left me stranded. When a failed crank sensor wouldn’t allow the engine to rev over 2,000rpm, I still made it home. When the head gasket failed (common issue with these), it never overheated, and I got away with just changing the gasket – nothing was warped. And that job was so simple to do, I found it amusing. There is definitely an advantage to a simple design.
• I prefer older cars. Some of the reasons are practical, as they are simpler, and easier to maintain. But I actually do prefer an older car overall. This 2004 Honda is not what I consider old, but it seems older than it is with 70 series tires, the roll up windows, and general lack of amenities now standard. I guess this is quaint nostalgia, and by no means a requirement, but it’s still a valid consideration to me.
• I like having as little money as possible tied up in things that go down in value. Not only are older cars often cheaper to buy and maintain, but at this point, many have fully depreciated. I believe the value of my Honda is based on its utility and condition, having nothing to do with the year on the title.
• Humilitude. I realized straight away how connected I’d become to the identity of someone who drove a particular type of car. I have been a car enthusiast my entire life , and make no apologies for that. In fact, I’ve only owned enthusiast cars. So arriving at my destination in an aging, nondescript economy car had me experiencing weird feelings, including shame. This took me years to overcome. Logically I understand that what I own isn’t who I am – the car is not a reflection of my worth. Nevertheless, I unwittingly assigned that value upon my car. Interestingly, my wife (who drives a car considered luxury in the traditional sense) did not experience this hangup (turns out she’s the true auto enthusiast in the house). She did have one point of contention with the car: it lacked central locking (it is that basic). I’d simply taken to leaving the car unlocked, but went ahead and installed an aftermarket power lock kit, with remote keyless entry, and all was well. I mention her take, as she challenged me to overcome my hangup about it. We’d be driving along, and I’d say something like “Behold, the smooth supple ride of the 2004 Civic Value Package.” She saw my BS for what it was, and helped me to stop making fun of the car, and appreciate it for it’s utility, and the role it plays in our life. 
• A vehicle is a tool. As with any tool, it should make life easier. Obviously it’s going to suck some resources for things like maintenance, cleaning, etc (regardless of whether self-performed, or  handled by a pro). But the overall net should be positive. At this point in my life, the feeling of having something special doesn’t outweigh the cost of being precious about it.

So I consider this Honda a luxury for how it fits into my life. And also for how the experience of owning it has changed my perception for the better. 

Post Script:

Just when everything was perfect, vehicle-wise, I zigged when I might have zagged. My family is growing, our interests are evolving, and I’d been weighing making the Honda fit our needs, versus changing to something that would be a better fit by design. In this process, I have been test driving prospective replacements to identify what that replacement might be. My intention was to not purchase something until late into next year at the soonest. But sometimes “the one” just falls into your lap, and you either act, or not. I acted. Topic for another post, but I’ll give a hint: It’s another Volvo wagon (this time without a turbo).

Six months ago, my second blog post in this series highlighted my experience giving up, then bringing back, the smart phone. It was a valuable learning experience which led me to better use the device, while increasing my appreciation for the features which are truly valuable to me. In order of importance to me (greatest to least), those features presently are:

1. Calendar
2. Timers, Reminders, Alarms
3. Notes (syncs with computer)
4. Audiobooks
5. Podcasts
6. GPS
7. Phone
8. Weather
9. Camera
10. Music

Note that I do not use email or web browsing on my phone. I do not follow news at all personally, but if I did, I’d limit it to the computer. I do have YouTube installed for the times I’m away from my desk, and need to find a DIY tutorial for something. The web browser was also useful for that, but the amount of time it saved me from walking to my desk, versus time wasted in mindless browsing was in inverse proportion. For some reason, this mindlessness rarely occurs at my desk, and I have little patience for videos as entertainment nowadays. Oh, and SMS: I do have it active. I used to dislike it, but many entities are using it for notifications I want to get in real time (school bus delays, for example). If someone wants to engage in a two way conversation, I can simply interact from my laptop (phone and laptop are from the same company, and SMS works across both). I’ve discovered that my disdain for text messaging really boils down to me just not liking doing a lot of typing by touch screen. And group texts, which can usually be ignored anyway.

Now for the event which inspired this post. My septuagenarian mother is really open to trying new things; keeping up with the times. A couple of years back, at age 75, she purchased her first smartphone, a decision I was not enthusiastic about. My take is that if one makes it to that stage in life without one, and doesn’t really require one, why bother with it? Of course my view is colored by the fact that my own first smartphone was a mandatory work issued device, and I’ll always associate them (at least when running all the core apps such as email and IM) with work. 

When Mom came to me recently with complaints of being overwhelmed by it all, boy did I have a solution for her! After a thoughtful examination of her needs and frustrations, I knew that a viable solution would be to strip down the features on the device to the bare minimum, letting her discover what she can live without, and what to bring back. But I took it a step further, and suggested she go back to a basic phone. Although this same solution wasn’t the answer for me, she had her share of technical issues (both real, and user-inflicted). So with that decided, I ordered one of the senior phones, as both the display and keypad were larger. She had a few issues with the device right off the bat. I didn’t know if it was her or the phone, but I thought (as the brand was unfamiliar to me) I would swap it for one of the well known Finnish phones which I’d used myself.

I’d already learned to appreciate just how user-friendly a modern smartphone is to even a modern regular phone (yes, they have advanced). That wasn’t a deal breaker for me, but for someone learning late in life, it can mean everything. So after a short but earnest trial with the second phone, she decided it wasn’t for her. Prior to returning the smartphone, I took the opportunity to remove most of the features and notifications. Now she can do what she needs to, on a familiar device, and not be bothered by news (that was the big one), spam, the potential to fall down “rabbit holes,” and the rest. So far I’ve heard nary a complaint.

Epilogue:

Are you wondering if I slid my own SIM card into the second phone after my mom gave it back to me. You know, just to see if I really still want the smart phone? Why yes, I did! Let me state I’m confident in my decision that, used the way I do, the smartphone works for me. I did, however, consider keeping this as a second device to use in certain situations. I quickly decided against that, and sent it back. Aside from distraction, much of my desire to return to a basic phone was fueled by nostalgia, the novelty of which, has since passed. It took no time to realize this. Another reason was size. At the time of my initial experiment, I was using a contemporary (larger) phone. This phone is the one I returned to post-experiment, but upon getting new jeans, I found it wouldn’t fit comfortably in the front pocket. Since I care more about pants than portable electronics, I solved the problem by swapping to a smaller phone – the smallest name brand one (to my knowledge) which is still operable on the VoLTE 4G networks. It’s from the Obama administration, and I’m surprised the manufacturer still supports it by way of updates. Anyway, putting my present smartphone next to the modern candy bar phone revealed that there wasn’t an appreciable difference in size. The simple phone was a bit narrower, but height and thickness were about the same. So what I realized this time around, was that for me, there is no longer any convincing appeal for the dumb phone.