MID-LIFE, THE UNIVERSE, AND EVERYTHING
by Bob Kopac
[This article, which appeared previously in this publication, chronicles an event in 2000. How time flies!]
When does a male runner recognize the point when he becomes Midde-Aged? I don’t mean Chaucer’s-CANTERBURY-TALES Middle-Aged. Nor do I mean Middle-Aged where statistically you have lived half your life. If you think it is 50 years old, how many runners do you know who have approached 100 years of age besides Johnny Kelley Senior? No, I mean the point when a male runner reaches the legendary Mid-Life Crisis.
For male runners, that point may come later than the sedentary portion of the male population. Yes, it is easy to delude yourself when you have a runner's body. Looking in the mirror, you may say, “This is the best I have ever looked! I look fast!” However, statistics show as you age, your race times will inevitably become slower, no matter how hard you train. You suddenly find yourself being beaten consistently in races by adversaries who have more tattoos than a yakuza, or who have more body piercings than General Custer after the Battle of Little Bighorn. You even start wearing a heart-rate monitor while running. Each of us will suffer a Mid-Life Crisis. After 47 years, mine came at a wedding of two friends from our running club.
To be precise, it came pre-wedding. Jean and Phil asked Lynne and me to be part of their wedding party. I said yes without even checking to see if the date conflicted with any race. Jean suggested that I help Phil select his wedding tuxedo, the style of which was to be kept a secret from Jean. I realized the inherent danger behind such a suggestion.
One iron-clad rule I have learned in life is Any-Secret-Kept-From-a-Woman-is-a-Problem. I responded in pure Guy fashion, “Lynne should come with us. I know Phil and I will make the wrong decision and screw everything up.” Lynne and Jean replied that could not possibly happen. Besides, they said, choosing a tuxedo was a Guy-Bonding event (or words to that effect). Although I realized it was an undertaking fraught with danger and doomed to failure, they had brought up Guy Bonding. In the Guy world, nothing is as sacred as Guy Bonding. It is similar to the samurai code of Bushido. So, with fear and loathing, I went with my running friend Phil (36 years old) to rent a tuxedo.
The first tuxedo store we visited was staffed by salespersons who could not legally drink and who probably had never heard of Bill Rodgers or Frank Shorter. Phil and I browsed through the tuxedos as the young sales force totally ignored us. Meanwhile, the staff helped several teenagers who entered the store after us; Phil and Jean had decided to get married during prom season.
Tired of being ignored and more restless than before the start of a race, I remembered a tuxedo place near the running store in the Mall. “The Mall”--the very words summoned derision from within my soul. Perhaps that was a Sign that I truly was approaching Middle-Age? Perhaps not, but the true Sign would manifest itself very shortly.
We entered the store. There was a twenty-something sweet-young-thing behind the counter. I swaggered up to her and with a gleam in my eye proclaimed, “We are here to get a tuxedo for Phil.” She replied, “Oh, are you the father?”
It was a knife through my heart, a suddenly Middle-Aged heart. I was devastated. The “C” word immediately came to mind, as in, “That was Cold, real Cold!” Although I wanted to run from the store, I realized that would not be a dignified, “Middle-Aged” reaction, so I stayed to help Phil choose a white tuxedo.
The women reading this article immediately recognize the Problem, but I assure you that Guys have no clue. I know, because I did not see the Problem. What Problem, the Guys say? No, it is not that the groom had to worry about being accosted by graffiti artists or worry about fellow runners stepping on him. (Guys will step on a fellow Guy’s new running shoes to get the shoes dirty. It’s a Guy Thing.) The Problem only became evident to me later when Jean learned that we had ordered white shirts. “White shirts?” she asked in alarm. “They cannot wear white! My gown is off-white!”
Women, I assure you that Guys still have no clue what the Problem is. “White” and “off-white”: what is in common? Could it be “white”? So what is the Problem? Apparently there is an an insurmountable difference between “white” and “off-white." The only difference I can see is the color of new running socks versus the color of old running socks. (I’m a Guy.) Suffice it to say that Lynne accompanied Phil and me on a return visit to the Mall to change the tux rental. At the store, I noticed an off-white vest over a white shirt. The combination looked great to me. I turned the vest around, and the back was pure white. I held the vest up to Lynne and said “Off-white.” I spun it around and said “White. If white and off-white cannot go together, then why did they put these colors on one vest?” My logic was brilliant, fool-proof, and of course totally contrary to female logic. We changed the tuxedo order from white to off-white.
By coincidence, that week Lynne received an e-mail joke from her sister that listed 10 items only women understand, with one of them being the difference between white, off-white, ivory, bone, cream, and ecru. Ecru? Have you ever seen an ecru-colored running singlet? Guys lump these colors under Colors-That-Get-Dirty-Easily-While-Running.
Speaking of white: after my Mid-Life Crisis, I happened to look into the mirror and suddenly noticed a white beard (not off-white, ivory, bone, or cream, but perhaps ecru). When did that happen? The word “grizzled” came to mind. Since I had just suffered my Mid-Life Crisis, I realized I had no choice. This called for drastic measures. Thus, after 30 years of facial hair, I shaved off my beard. So, if you happen to see someone at a race trying to appear 10 years younger, that will be me.
