Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis

by Robyn Harding

  In a few minutes I’ve reached the circular drive of the Sutton Place, a luxury hotel in the heart of the city. It’s where all the stars stay when they come to Vancouver. Not that I’m particularly impressed by this, but someone said Lance Armstrong was here last weekend, and I wouldn’t mind meeting him. Now there’s a guy who knows what he wants in life and takes it. And he does it all with just one nut. He’s an inspiration.

  I hand my keys to the valet and grab my suitcase out of the trunk. As I head inside, I wave away the bellboy. It feels good to carry my own luggage, I’m not sure why. It makes me feel in charge. Plus, I don’t have any small bills for tipping. Lucy was always on top of that.

  The lobby is spacious, austere, and gleaming. The staff members give me respectful nods as I move directly to the bank of elevators. To them I’m just another businessman from Toronto or San Francisco, in town for a meeting or seminar. I’m not some guy from across the bridge who’s just left his wife and daughter. I’m thankful for the anonymity.

  I ride up to the ninth floor with a good-looking blond guy who might be on that lawyer show I like, but I’m not sure. Samantha would know. She knows way too much about celebrities, if you ask me. But considering that her mother makes a living off the film and television industry, I guess it would be hypocritical to discourage her interest.

  Room 906 is a welcome refuge of tranquility and calm. I put my suitcase on the foldout stand and go straight to the minibar. I’m dying for a drink after that scene. Grabbing an eight-dollar bottle of Grolsch, I flop onto the bed and flick on the TV. The Canucks are winning for a change, and I settle back onto the plethora of pillows lining the headboard. Beer, hockey, and solitude: what more could a guy want? But somehow, I can’t seem to concentrate on the game. Reaching for my cell phone on the bedside table, I check for missed calls or text messages. There are none. I’m simultaneously relieved and disappointed: relieved that Lucy isn’t calling to hurl more abuse at me, and a little disappointed that Annika hasn’t contacted me either.

  I could always phone Annika, just a friendly call. “Hey, how are you? Whatcha up to? Me? Oh, not much. Watching the game … I left my wife tonight.” But something about the timing feels wrong. Calling Annika now would be too significant. It would elevate her status from beautiful, sexy co-worker to whom I’m most definitely attracted to something more. Because I did not lie to Lucy: Annika is not the reason I left her. My wife and I have been living in separate orbits for years now. Lucy cares about her job, Samantha, the house, and then me— in that order. I’m sure if you asked her she’d say Samantha and I come first, but that’s bullshit. You don’t spend twelve hours a day running around buying basketballs and zit cream for some teenybopper actor unless you love your job.

  If anything, my attraction to Annika has been more like a wake-up call. It’s shown me that I’m not completely dead inside, that I’m still capable of intense desire, of passion, of … caring about my appearance. I still remember Lucy’s smirk when I came home with some stylish pants—as if I’d sidled in like MC Hammer or someone. It pissed me off, it really did. It’s emasculating, is what it is. Annika didn’t laugh at me. She said, “You look nice today, Trent. New pants?” Even though she’s eleven years younger, Annika never makes me feel like an old fool like Lucy does. I mean, Lucy caught me using a little eye cream once and almost pissed her pants laughing.

  God, I want to call Annika. I want to call her and ask her to meet me for a drink in the bar downstairs. Then, when she’s a little drunk, I’ll ask her up to my room where I’ll rip her clothes off and ravage her like a sex-starved teenager. A little aroused just by the thought, I reach for the phone. But I can’t. I can’t invite Annika over mere minutes after I’ve walked out on my wife and daughter. It would be wrong. It would be sordid somehow. I know … I’ll watch some porn.

  Lucy always said “It’s not that I’m totally against watching porn, but there’s a time and a place for it.” I’m not sure when that time or where that place was, but it was most definitely not in our house, not when our daughter, or any other human being for that matter, was within thirty feet of us. Even if we were separated by a solid layer of plywood, gyproc, and plaster, Lucy could not stomach porn. We had a great sex life once, about a million years ago, but we’d both stopped making the effort.

  On the screen, a blond motorcycle cop with enormous fake breasts pulls over a speeding Corvette. “Step out of the car,” she instructs the driver, a Tom Selleck look-alike in impossibly tight, faded jeans. “Now,”she continues, removing her mirrored sunglasses, “unzip your pants.” Of course he complies and the cop proceeds to give him a highly enthusiastic blow job. It’s hot, all right; it’s porn. But something’s wrong. I just can’t get turned on by what I’m watching on the screen. It feels sort of …dirty and wrong. I flick back to the hockey game, even though I’ve just wasted eighteen bucks on two minutes of a movie. At least hockey isn’t going to make me feel guilty—well, not any guiltier than I already feel.

  Lucy

  UNFORTUNATELY CAMILLE WASN’T HOME, so I’m forced to go the tea and sympathy route with Hope. “Have a cookie,” she says, offering me the tin of home-baked peanut butter delights.

  “I can’t eat,” I say, sniveling into a tissue. “I’m too upset.”

  “Oh, honey,” Hope says, reaching out to draw me into a tight hug. My friend is the epitome of maternal comfort: warm, soft, and smelling of fabric softener. “I know it’s hard right now, but every marriage has its challenges. If you just give Trent a little time and a little space, he’ll come back home.”

  I break free of her embrace. “But what if I don’t want to give him time and space? What if I want him to be a man and face up to his responsibilities? Sure, I’d love to run off and stay in a nice hotel and have affairs and get my eyes done. But I’m here, caring for my daughter, trying to give her a stable, loving upbringing so she doesn’t turn into an angry sociopath or … a serial killer or something.”

  “Yes, but men are different from us by nature. They don’t have the same ingrained sense of family and responsibility. And they have a much harder time coming to terms with their own mortality.” Hope takes a deep, cleansing breath before continuing. “Do you remember when Mike was traveling so much last spring?”

  I did remember. Why Mike’s job as an optometrist required numerous trips to Aspen and the Bahamas was a mystery to me. But Hope, being the patient and loving super-wife that she was, had never questioned him. She just smiled sweetly when he returned home with a tan and a hangover.

  “Well, there actually were no optometry conventions in Colorado and the Turks & Caicos.”

  “Really?” I say, feigning surprise.

  “Mike was actually going through an existential crisis. He’d just turned forty-five, his doctor had told him his cholesterol was high, and he was suddenly feeling his age. Those trips were just a last grasp at his misspent youth. He needed to go diving and skiing and drinking with younger women. He needed to get the microdermabrasion and the body sculpting.”

  “Body sculpting?”

  She waves her hand dismissively. “A little minor lipo.”

  “Mike had lipo?” I can’t hide my shock and, well, maybe disgust is too strong a word but … ewwww!

  “No, he had some minor body sculpting on his love handles. It was something he had to get out of his system, and now he’s home.”

  “And you’re okay with that?”

  “Yes, because it ultimately brought him back to me and the kids, and now I truly feel we’re closer than ever.”

  At this moment, I’m really wishing I could have gotten a hold of Camille and her bottle of tequila. I’m not usually a big drinker, but this is an exception. “I’m happy for you guys, but I just don’t know if I could be that forgiving.”

  “I know.” She squeezes my hand. “That’s why I brought this.” Digging in her large purse, she pulls out a battered paperback book. When she passes it to me, I read the title.

  Until He Com
es Home

  How His Mid-Life Crisis Can Benefit Your Marriage

  “Uh … thanks, but I don’t know if I’m really in the right headspace to read something like this.”

  “Not yet, but you will be,” Hope says with a supportive smile. “For a marriage to work, you can’t be so quick to give up on it.”

  “He’s the one who’s giving up on it!” I cry. Then, lowering my voice lest I alert my daughter, “He’s the one who walked out on me! Why do I have to do all the work to try to keep our family together?”

  “Because,” Hope says with a beatific smile, “you’re the woman.”

  Oh Christ. “I need a drink.” I stand up. “I think I’ve got some wine in the kitchen. Do you want some wine?”

  “Do you really think you should be drinking at a time like this?”

  “You’re right. Really, I should be smoking crack.” I don’t say this though. Hope would undoubtedly take me seriously and plan some pre-emptive intervention. Instead, I sit back on the couch. “You’re right. What I really need is some sleep. I worked a thirteen-hour day and I’m exhausted. Things will probably look a lot more positive in the morning.”

  “They will,” Hope assures me. “And please … read at least one chapter of this book. I promise it’ll help you understand what Trent’s going through.”

  After I’ve promised to read several pages of a book designed to help me understand why selfish, pricklike behavior is a God-given right for the entire male species, Hope leaves. Through the front window I watch her taillights disappear down the darkened street, and then scurry to the kitchen for the longawaited glass of wine. The bottle of chardonnay sitting in the fridge door is half empty. I have no idea how long it’s been there, but this is no time to be fussy. With the bottle and a full glass in my hand, I return to the sofa. I try Camille one more time, but she’s still not home. For some reason, this fills me with an almost unbearable desolation. It’s not like Camille is the only other person I can turn to; I’m on friendly terms with a number of neighbors, co-workers, and mothers of Samantha’s friends. But she’s the only other person I want to turn to. I’m not ready to admit to the world that my marriage—my whole life—is a failure.

  When the bottle of wine and my tear ducts are empty, I head to bed. Until He Comes Home sits untouched on the bedside table. I’m too exhausted, too confused, and a bit too drunk to focus on it right now. And I don’t even know what I want. Do I want to wait patiently for Trent to realize he loves me and come home? Or do I want him to die in a fiery car crash? Wait— maybe something more horrifying, like being eaten by a shark while he snorkels off the coast of Aruba. Better yet, it should be something really embarrassing, like reacting to the anesthesia during his brow lift. Or maybe a heart attack while lying naked in a tanning bed? With these pleasant thoughts in my head, I drift off to sleep.

  Trent

  THE ROOM IS DARK WHEN THE ALARM GOES OFF, and it takes me a second to remember where I am. Right. I did it. I left. After months of worrying and stressing, I finally made a move. In the dim light of early morning, it all seems a little unreal. This could easily be a hotel room in Calgary or Seattle where I’m attending a conference, but no. I’m in a hotel in downtown Vancouver, having walked out on my wife and daughter.

  Obviously, there’s a bit of a negative connotation when it’s put like that, but I’m not going to be eaten up by the guilt. Plenty of men reach the same decision that I have: life’s too short to be stuck in a passionless marriage. I feel bad for Sam, but she’ll get over it. I can still be a good dad to her, and I know Lucy won’t let her down. Besides, what kind of example were we setting for her, living separate lives in the same house? She should know there’s more to life than that.

  I get up and head to the shower. If I don’t think about Lucy crying on the sofa, I feel pretty good. I’m a single man again. Okay, maybe one night in a hotel doesn’t make me single, but I took a step that needed to be taken. One day, Lucy will see that. Now, it’s time to look forward.

  My stomach does this weird, nervous, butterfly thing as I think about seeing Annika … voluptuous, sexy Annika with those big tits and that wild, curly hair. I decide to jerk off. It’s a relief not to have to worry about Lucy walking in on me.

  “Yuck! What are you doing?” she’d said when she walked in on me once. Those were her exact words—“Yuck! What are you doing?” Like masturbation isn’t the most normal, healthy thing in the world. When did Lucy become so fucking uptight? She used to be fun and sexy, but now … I tear my thoughts from my wife and focus on Annika. Now that’s more like it.

  Lucy

  WHEN THE ALARM GOES OFF AT 6:00 A.M. I feel confused and extremely thirsty. It would be completely acceptable to call in sick under the circumstances, but I somehow feel the distraction of work might help. After a jarring shower, a piece of toast, and a few sips of undrinkable coffee (Trent always made delicious coffee, but I refuse to let this upset me), I go to my daughter’s room. “Knock, knock,” I say cheerfully as I let myself inside.

  Samantha’s sanctuary is an exercise in organized chaos. She’s a talented artist, and her walls are plastered with numerous school projects: a surreal self-portrait in charcoal; a scattering of ink drawings featuring stylized, metallic insects; a papiermâché lantern; and my favorite, a watercolor of sailboats off Jericho Beach that she did when she was only twelve. Interspersed among her artwork are posters of her latest adolescent crush, Cody Summers. Cody Summers, played by the actor Wynn Felker, is the star of the sitcom I’m working on, Cody’s Way. The fact that Wynn Felker is not a precocious teenage boy with a knack for getting himself into trouble but a twenty-seven-year-old man with an enormous Hollywood ego does not quell Samantha’s affection. She seems to think I’m making it all up just to thwart her first true love.

  I perch on the side of her bed. “Morning, honey.”

  “What?” she growls, pulling the pillow over her head. “What time is it?”

  “It’s seven. I’ve got to head to work now, and Daddy—” I pause here, uncomfortable about lying to my daughter. But obviously I can’t say that Daddy is at the Sutton Place Hotel finding himself and booking appointments with plastic surgeons. “Your dad had to go away on business. So, can you get yourself off to school on your own?”

  She emerges from under her pillow. “Of course I can. Duh? I’m not, like, nine.”

  “Okay … well, that’s good then. You should get up now or you’re going to be late.”

  “Fine,” she grumbles, throwing off her duvet and stumbling toward the shower.

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER, I pull up in front of the Cody’s Way studio building in an industrial area south of Vancouver. “Hi Tanya,” I mumble to the receptionist as I wander through the inauspicious lobby toward my office at the back. When I enter the small, cluttered space I share with Camille, my friend is already seated at her desk, peering intently at a spreadsheet on her computer.

  “Morning,” she says, without tearing her eyes from the screen.

  “Where were you last night?” I ask, dropping my purse under my desk.

  She turns to me then. “Oh god! Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

  I’m grateful for her sympathy, but a little chagrined by the fact that my having spent the whole night drinking wine and crying is so readily apparent. As I start to explain, I feel the tears welling in my eyes. Before I can speak, Camille grabs my hand. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll talk in my car.”

  As we drive toward Burnaby and one of the prop houses, I explain the events of last night. Not surprisingly, Camille says, “That fucking bastard. Does he think he’s nineteen? God, men are such weak creatures.”

  “I know,” I snivel into a balled-up tissue, “they are.”

  “Seriously, you’re better off without him if this shows his strength of character. And Samantha’s better off too. How’s she taking it?”

  “Sh-she doesn’t know!” I wail. “He hasn’t told her yet.”

  “Oh my god! You’re k
idding me. He just walked out and left you to deal with the aftermath? Do you see what kind of person he really is? He’s a selfish, self-absorbed dick with the emotional maturity of a twelve-year-old. Seriously, you don’t need a piece of shit like him in your life.”

  “He’s not that bad,” I say, for some reason a little defensive. I was married to the guy for sixteen years. “I told him he needs to come talk to her, and I’m sure he will.”

  Camille pulls the car into the parking lot outside the large warehouse building and turns off the ignition. “Stay here and get yourself together. I’ll go in and look for the stuff we need. I want you to take it easy today, and tonight, I’ll come over with some booze and we’ll talk this whole thing out.”

  “’Kay.”

  “And remember,”she says as she hops out of the Explorer, “in the long run, you’ll be glad all this happened. I promise.”

  Trent

  I’M WITH CLIENTS ALL MORNING, which is a good distraction. Of course, I can’t help but catch a glimpse of Annika as she escorts a young couple out of her office. God, she’s sexy. She’s a little heavier than Lucy, but in all the right places. And that hair … I just want to grab it, pull her head back, and suck on her neck. She glances my way and I wave. It feels juvenile, not to mention unprofessional, to wave at the girl you’re hot for while you’re advising a fifty-eight-year-old high school teacher on his retirement investments. But when she smiles and gives me a wink, I feel this heat in the pit of my stomach. Thankfully, the high school teacher doesn’t notice and continues to peruse the mutual fund brochures I’ve given him.

  At lunch, I’ll call Lucy. I’m sure she’s still too pissed off to have a civil conversation with me, but I’m concerned about Samantha. Given Lucy’s work schedule, I’m usually the one who’s home with Sam in the mornings, and often at dinner. She’s bound to notice my absence and question her mom about it. I don’t want Lucy to explain why I’ve left. No doubt she’d say something mean, like “Your dad is an immature, irresponsible dickwad who wears funny pants and doesn’t love you.”