Mouthful of Business Jargon --DeWese
August 2005
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In late May of this year, just a month before my 63rd birthday, I realized that I had denied myself the luxury of a mid-life crisis.
A lot of my friends and business associates had some sort of mid-life crisis. Their stories of a fast break from the routine boredom of their ho-hum lives sounded exciting and fun. My opportunities for some mid-life fun just passed me by.
I was always too busy doing a deal, writing a column, making a speech or trying to keep up with my 30 ballplayers—cleaning the men's and women's port-a-potties and making sure we had enough game balls when I owned the Marple Crawdads baseball team.
Other people had the luxury of actually planning a mid-life crisis and some spent years visualizing their catharsis.
Some women had a fling with another man (someone sensitive who "understood"). Some men had clandestine affairs with other women (usually much younger). Some men, accustomed to driving Buicks, bought convertible Corvettes.
Other men dumped their beer and bass boats for a Chris Craft, Dom Perignon champagne and a bevy of bikini babes. These guys also stopped buttoning the top four buttons on their silk designer shirts, began wearing heavy 18-carat bling-bling and growing their hair to ponytail length.
Maybe it's Not too Late
Damn. I missed all that. I decided to invent, and then have, a late-life crisis. After all, I'm the guy who invented sales procrastination.
I thought I would go for the "other woman" fling and try to surreptitiously leave in the middle of the night. This strategy was a failure. My ad in the singles section of the Philadelphia Inquirer only drew three responses, all from inmates in the women's prison. It wouldn't have been so bad, but they sent their photographs.
I decided to sneak out anyway and maybe take a little trip to Las Vegas, where I could have some real fun and leave it all there. Unfortunately Attila the Nun, my wife of 43 years, found my airline e-ticket and hid my luggage and car keys.
I got even. Two days later, I drove home in my brand new Porsche convertible. Another failure. Once again, Attila hid the keys, but this time she called the psych unit at the hospital and had them come get me. I do have a private room and TV privileges.
I've had a lot of time to reflect on my mid-life crisis and it just proves that you cannot be something you are not. I am unqualified to philander or to drive a sports car.
A lot of my friends and business associates had some sort of mid-life crisis. Their stories of a fast break from the routine boredom of their ho-hum lives sounded exciting and fun. My opportunities for some mid-life fun just passed me by.
I was always too busy doing a deal, writing a column, making a speech or trying to keep up with my 30 ballplayers—cleaning the men's and women's port-a-potties and making sure we had enough game balls when I owned the Marple Crawdads baseball team.
Other people had the luxury of actually planning a mid-life crisis and some spent years visualizing their catharsis.
Some women had a fling with another man (someone sensitive who "understood"). Some men had clandestine affairs with other women (usually much younger). Some men, accustomed to driving Buicks, bought convertible Corvettes.
Other men dumped their beer and bass boats for a Chris Craft, Dom Perignon champagne and a bevy of bikini babes. These guys also stopped buttoning the top four buttons on their silk designer shirts, began wearing heavy 18-carat bling-bling and growing their hair to ponytail length.
Maybe it's Not too Late
Damn. I missed all that. I decided to invent, and then have, a late-life crisis. After all, I'm the guy who invented sales procrastination.
I thought I would go for the "other woman" fling and try to surreptitiously leave in the middle of the night. This strategy was a failure. My ad in the singles section of the Philadelphia Inquirer only drew three responses, all from inmates in the women's prison. It wouldn't have been so bad, but they sent their photographs.
I decided to sneak out anyway and maybe take a little trip to Las Vegas, where I could have some real fun and leave it all there. Unfortunately Attila the Nun, my wife of 43 years, found my airline e-ticket and hid my luggage and car keys.
I got even. Two days later, I drove home in my brand new Porsche convertible. Another failure. Once again, Attila hid the keys, but this time she called the psych unit at the hospital and had them come get me. I do have a private room and TV privileges.
I've had a lot of time to reflect on my mid-life crisis and it just proves that you cannot be something you are not. I am unqualified to philander or to drive a sports car.
Companies Mentioned:
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