Calculated and Recalculated Risks

Before and After!

Even with clippers, with fullest safety measures observed it took a good thirty minutes to deescalate my hair status from Tom Waits to Bob Mould.

Previously on Midlife Crisis Crossover: among the many and varied complications arisen from the nonstop tension that is life during the interim normal, I went 5½ months between haircuts. I had hoped to go a full six months to round off that total, but when it came time for our 16th anniversary dinner, I decided to impress my wife with a seemingly heroic act of basic grooming.

It worked. Anne knows how jittery I’ve been lately and knows that I didn’t enter into it lightly. She’d gotten her own post-winter haircut a few weeks earlier and managed to avoid major illness, thanks in large part to the multitude of precautions taken on both sides of the salon cape. To an extent I was just following her lead. Haircuts shouldn’t need life-or-death deliberation, and yet here we are.

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5 Months’ Growth, 3 Months’ Retreat

June 2020.

Adrift in an off-white limbo. Hair by slapdash fiat. Old Hawaiian shirt by, I dunno, probably Kohl’s or J.C. Penney.

June 25th marked five months since my last haircut. Some people wait that long on purpose. When your naturally curly hair is a curse, that’s not usually your Plan A. But sometimes your plans need a change in ranking.

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Updates from the Interim Normal: Masks and Other Tasks

Mask Black!

Our niece made us masks! Very sweet of her.

Previously on Midlife Crisis Crossover, everything’s coming up COVID-19 worldwide:

…whenever we think we’ve settled down and the tension has eased as we’ve adapted to each change thrown at us, some knowledgeable authority or some know-nothing internet crank picks up a megaphone and bellows in our ears like William Dozier on ye olde Batman TV show, “THE WORST IS YET TO COME!”

The story is far from over — more so in other countries disproportionately hit by the Coronavirus disease. I’d rather not imagine what a “Chapter 2” for this post would look like. I have other things I’d much rather write about, but I’m skeptical as to whether anyone would take a break from refreshing their Coronavirus phone updates to glance at anything else. Frankly, I know the feeling.

We’ve been rolling with the changes. Anne is still working from our home library while I’m among the 3% of employees in my legally Essential company still driving to the office every day, handling critical in-person tasks so my coworkers can stay home. I’m weathering the indefinite suspension of the comic book direct market, which has given me an opportunity to dive into my gigantic backlog of unread books. To while away the hours between shifts we’ve doubled down on family game night, supported our local journalists and their greedy overlords, reminisced about restaurants, and discovered Zoom. We enjoyed a weekend of free HBO, found mixed results with a new streaming service, and, may the Lord have mercy upon us, withdrawn from Tiger King mania.

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What “Christmas Shoes” Means to Me

shoes!

Guess which ones are mine and win an MCC No-Prize!

No, not the song. Egad, no. No no no no no.

Once again it’s the season for family making the visitation rounds for the sake and spirit of Christmas. Our largest family gathering every year is at my father-in-law’s place, where this year over three dozen relatives and plus-ones convened on Saturday morning, though just to brag for the record, Anne and I were among the three (3) people who could be bothered to arrived on time.

One of the major house rules is shoes come off at the front door, because older couples who think white carpet is a splendid decorating choice are finicky that way. By the time everyone arrived and got down to eating and mingling throughout the afternoon, the entryway was a cluttered war zone of castoff footwear. No heels, no Manolo Blahniks, nothing you’d wear to a shoeshine stand. Neither our families nor our gatherings see high rollers like that. Anyone who would object to such carefree shoe storage would be recognized right away as Not One of Us.

And yes, I see you number-crunchers out there scrunching your nose because you count two dozen pairs at most in the photo. Several more pairs were offscreen to my left. It’s also possible that a few of the toddlers were allowed to keep theirs on. I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t looking because no one assigned me to Christmas Shoe Police duty.

The shoe pile is emblematic of our gatherings themselves, whether it’s holidays, kids’ birthday parties, or the annual reunions where we’re joined by a few extra strangers of shared blood. Everyone who’s a citizen of our tiny microcosm nation agrees to throw in together and make one big mess. At the end we agree to retrieve the parts of the mess that were our fault, one by one, family unit by family unit, until order is restored and my in-laws have their foyer back.

It’s Christmas. It’s what we do. In our finer moments it’s how we can be as a family in other matters as well.

Merry Christmas to you ‘n’ yours from us here at Midlife Crisis Crossover. May your days be merry and bright, may your celebrations of our Savior be blessed and comforting, and here’s hoping the circles you belong to will set aside their reservations and come together in happy, sloppy, love-filled pileups of their own.

A Day (or so) in My Life: a Moment of Thankfulness at Easter

First things first, above all else: Happy, glorious, wondrous Easter to one and all!

My laundry list of thank-yous and expressions of gratitude relevant to this celebratory occasion would go on for pages and surprise no one who knows me. Even something as simple as an ordinary day in my life is cause for joy, though I’m just as likely to take too much of each one for granted.

Behold the city of Indianapolis, where my ordinary average day begins. It’s above-average in size, but still treated as one of the runts in the major-American-city clique, though the positive reviews of our Super Bowl LXVI hosting experience went a long way toward convincing other cities to stop calling us names. Many of the fruits produced in my life wouldn’t have been possible if Indy were the nonstop battleground that local news would sometimes have us think it is.

Indianapolis skyline

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How Do-It-Yourself Tutorials Made the Internet My Honorary Step-Parent

Barlow Cemetery, Avon, Indiana

During a fully functional adulthood, not every moment can be fun ‘n’ games ‘n’ writing.

I was born and raised in a HUD-funded lower-class apartment complex without benefit of a father who could teach me the fundamentals of male living such as auto repair, home improvement, industrial arts, or sports appreciation. Whereas the average male begins learning these skills at an early age — either from Dad, Stepdad, or other guy friends — I counted myself lucky that I knew which screwdriver was which. I picked up a few lessons here and there over the years, but when my wife and I became first-time ignorant homeowners in 2007, self-education in these fields became a necessary survival tactic. If I had to pick up the phone and my credit card every time an inanimate object misbehaved or died unexpectedly, we’d be bankrupt and retreating to our old shack-sized apartment once more.

The older I’ve gotten, the more I’m tiring of paying professional repairmen to complete every single task. Thankfully, certain areas of the Internet are populated by Good Samaritans willing and able to share their everyday knowledge with our disadvantaged lot. Over the past 5½ years I’ve made several virtual pilgrimages to any number of macho sensei in hopes that their imparted wisdom would imbue me with a new talent and save me several bucks.

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