At first, others look askance long before they start to raise eyebrows or shyly begin to inquire. Their questions often start out with well-intended timidity: “Say, have you noticed that…? Or I’m only asking you because I care deeply.” I remember asking myself these same questions at a certain point.
Some
guys come home with the keys to a brand-new vanity car. Others start changing up their wardrobe,
getting their hair cut slightly differently to hide the receding hairline,
obscure the increasing shades of white and grey. Still others take to drinking, or exhibit a
sudden rise in libido that marks a heretofore-inhibited interest in other women. Spouses all have different reactions. Some understand,
and are more than willing to simply shrug off the sudden lapses in judgment
with a laugh, and write off the reckless flights of fancy. Others bolt.
I
guess I’m not sure if you know you’re in the middle of a midlife crisis
precisely when you are—who’s to say? For
some, it makes absolute sense to drive a sporty 2-seater after years of
schlepping around now-grown children in a mini-van. Nothing amiss in that. Sometimes
there’s a precipitating event—with guys this often involves the prostate or
some other health-induced cautionary flag, after a series of similarly humility-raising
medical tests or procedures.
I
remember when my crisis first began. It
was about 15 years ago. I can remember
it almost exactly to the day. If a dozen
others had witnessed the incident that Kay did, they would have started asking more
questions. It was on a Sunday morning in
the middle of March, the 13th of March as it turned out, to be exact. I asked Kay if I could take our 7 year old son
Will down to a service at a neighborhood church in the middle of Detroit. She scarcely raised a concern. In the years since, there have been countless
other signs pointing to the fact that something wasn’t quite right.
But
more recently, my behavior became more pronounced, the potential cause for
alarm clearly on the ascent. I came home
one day after a week on the road and suggested that we get rid of half of our
possessions, toss them, or give them away, since we no longer found much use
for most of them. After doing so, I
suggested we sell our home, yes; the one we built over 20 years ago on the most
perfect plot of land in the middle of the most perfect Midwestern college
town. In the kind of neighborhood anyone
of middle age and middle income dreams of driving through in a Volvo or Subaru
wagon or SUV dropping off various kids in carpool. Yes, the house with the kitchen
wall that could never be painted because it was etched with the heights of each
of our two boys from the year they turned 2 until the year they headed off to
high school. Yes, the house we built in
Ann Arbor, my perfect dream location after college, right down the street from
the most perfect down-to-earth country club where much like the bar in Cheers
years ago, “everyone knows our name.” Yes, that house.
More
to the point, after selling said house, I suggested we leave the idyllic
splendor of our quiet suburban neighborhood, filled as it was to capacity with
fun-loving and similarly situated friends and family. Get rid of that house, and all the safe,
comfortable serenity that accompanied it.
Yes, that life and all the stuff inside. I suggested we pick up and move.
Yes,
I could justify asking her to do this.
After all, just months earlier, I had just taken a new job with a
company that allowed me the latitude of a number of different possibilities for
re-location. The new company was based
in San Diego California, so there was that.
Or Fort Worth Texas, or Chicago, or Cincinnati, or Boston or Atlanta,
any number of these places having offices where my newfound work colleagues
already resided. Yes, any of these choices
represented realistic options.
But
instead of proposing any of these as my first choice, now that our boys were grown
and on their own, more or less, and we really didn’t need to stick around town
for any particular reason other than that we were comfortable and happy, and
didn’t need to live here to attend all the home football games in the Big House,
I went down an entirely different path.
No
instead, I asked her to move to downtown Detroit.
Yes,
the city that I grew up in for the first decade of my life, for sure, but that
bore little resemblance to the heterogeneous hodgepodge of ethnic enclaves I
remember vividly from my childhood. The
city that had lost nearly a quarter of its entire population in the past
decade. Yes, that city. The one that was still known by many as the
murder capital of the world, even though larger and more populous cities had
statistically edged ahead of it in that particular performance category. Yes, that city. The one that currently graduates less than a
quarter of its students from high school, unless they’re incarcerated for a
capital crime, in which case their chances for graduating rise substantially.
Yes,
the city that on the brink of fiscal receivership deposed its mayor in a sex
scandal only to learn that he’d also been under surveillance by the police for
extortion, money laundering and employing his father simultaneously as
political mentor and bagman. Yes, the same city that simultaneously uncovered
corruption in its Police force and accepted the resignation of its Chief of
Police because of a sex scandal with a woman on the force, who in turn had succeeded
a Chief of Police who had been deposed by a sex scandal with the same woman
employed on the same Police force, not terribly long after learning that the
force itself, had corrupted most of its own DNA and forensic evidence for much
of its incarcerated population.
Yes,
that Detroit.
Okay,
so here’s the kicker. Within days I had mapped
out a half dozen different possibilities after extensive research. (I’m not arguing that it wasn’t an unusual
decision on my part, just suggesting it was well-thought). Then
Kay got into a car with me the next weekend.
We drove down to Detroit. And just like she did 26 years earlier, when I
first approached her on bended knee (I could do that back then) at our favorite
restaurant in Roanoke Virginia, Alexander’s, arriving ring in hand and asked
her to marry me, Kay said YES, emphatically so!
Let’s do it.
Let’s
sell our home in Ann Arbor and move to Detroit.
So,
after all this, here we are now. In midtown Detroit in a loft formerly home to
the accounts payable department of a Good House Keeping small appliance
store. It overlooks the public library
with the world’s largest archive of automotive repair manuals, across from the empty
parking lot once home to the largest retail department store in the world, several
blocks from the global headquarters of the world’s once largest automotive
company in the world next to another empty parking lot currently under
construction, and across the street from Woodward Avenue.
Woodward,
the granddaddy of all downtown shopping boulevards in its hey-day, and now hey-what-its
endlessly interesting amalgam of wig stores, blighted abandoned buildings,
reclaimed residences, and crumbling cornices. It’s where we can spend 75 cents to take the
People Mover over to the restaurants in Greektown, or spend $5 walking there
after paying homage to the area’s frequent pan-handlers, grifters, destitute
prostitutes and drifters.
And
so I guess the obvious question then is this:
Whose midlife crisis is this anyway? I’m thinking it’s anyone’s guess at
this point.