I turned 35 last week, and I’m pretty sure I’m having a mid-life crisis…

Only, so far as the first (presumed) half of my life was dominated by rascality, and slightly above-average — but wholly appropriate — delinquency (a prolonged stint of what a geezer or two might still call ballyhoo) my mid-life crisis has made me more… well, responsible.

“What’s being 35 feel like?” my little brother asked me.

“Fuckin’ old,” I said without hesitation.


I recently bought a dependable car — a Toyota Tacoma, which is a really badass, girl’s truck if you don’t know it (at 35 I’m still very much defined by my possessions, even if I have very few of them).

I’ve also been practicing responsible sexuality — abstaining from sexual encounters, gratuitous or otherwise. I explored a period of celibacy and sobriety. Sure, it only lasted a few months, but they were the longest few months of my life since I turned 18. At 35, I’m experiencing the greatest degree of sexual desire of my entire life.

Celibacy is for the fucking birds, and you can keep sobriety — I may be a professional Yoga teacher, but I’m first and foremost a Midwesterner.

Perhaps most shocking to me, I started craving a couple of really weird things (weird as defined by the narrow range of existence that I’ve yet lived)… things like stability… dependability… reliability.

I want to raise bees and have a family. I want to write books and contribute in a productive way to society. I still refuse to pay my income taxes — but, at 35, that might be the most responsible way I’ve found to contribute.

“What do you mean?” he could only wonder.

“Let me put it this way, bro…” I attempted to clarify, “My knees hurt from the time I wake up till the time I go to bed. I regularly pluck white hairs…from my ears. And I had to check my own prostate the other day…”

He cringed.

I proceeded to describe for him, in detail which I will spare you, about the time I was compelled to perform a self-prostate examination.

What a healthy prostate should feel like (soft and pliable) and, by comparison, an unhealthy one (hard like a walnut) — and never mind that I’ve never exactly palpated a fuckin’ walnut in all of my 35 years, much less not while doubled over with my accommodatingly long arm reaching through my groin and my first two fingers stuck fist-deep up my own butt…

Did I mention that I learned all of this on the internet? For, at 35, I’m already a crotchety old coot who refuses to pay for a number of things that he thinks are out to get him, such as American healthcare, tap water, and chemtrails.

“That’s a little bit what being 35 is like, bro.”

He nodded — the mind’s unconscious acknowledgement of that which it knows to be true but does not believe.

Then again, maybe he just wasn’t able to assimilate these details into his 24-year-old existence.

At 35, I’m just now starting to realize that I won’t live forever, that those closest to death should be the busiest living life, and that if I wear my hair in a mohawk, grow my own dope, and crash on a friend’s couch, I can avoid growing up no matter how old I may grow on paper.

But, what the fuck do I know? At 35, it seems like less and less…

I’ll spare you the rest — you wiser than me who know best, you older than me who know better, and you younger still who one day will.