MARCH 8TH, 2022
In honor of International Women’s Day, UNDRGRND has a special article from the poet, writer and artist Ana Maria Caballero. Links to all of her work can be found on her website: anamariacaballero.com.
As I approached that all-important fortieth milestone, American Beauty, the haunting nineties film whose dark plot revolves around a midlife crisis, often popped into my mind. From the vantage of my midlife, I came to grasp that Lester Buhrnam, the character supposedly in crisis, is, in fact, the happiest. Lester builds muscle, revs engines, smokes pot, tricks money, and nearly sleeps—albeit illicitly—with impossible youth. Though his actions bring his family’s simmering misery to a boil, he is not miserable.
Lester’s extreme behavior is ruinous, and he pays for it with his life. But his story carries a finer point—those who go through what society likes to label a “midlife crisis” generate turmoil around them but aren’t the ones who actually experience crisis.
Rigid gravitational laws lock-related bodies into orbit—to alter set tracks, bodies must defy gravity, throwing systems into crisis. My husband defied gravity a decade ago, right when he turned forty. He left his comfortable job in a cozy city, moved us to another country and reinvested all our savings—as well as all of himself—in his dream company. We had a newborn and a three-year-old. I’d stopped working to raise them. In my eyes, his brazen decisions placed our stability at risk. But he plowed forward and built.
Twenty years ago, a trader from Jersey named Salvatore gave me the best advice I never knew I’d gotten. Sal sat on the credit desk of the hedge fund where I paid my post-college dues. He noticed I was one of the first to arrive, one of the last to leave, and said: Kid, don’t ever be too good at your job.
Sal’s operative word was “job”—not in the sense of “career,” “vocation,” “profession,” or even “chore,” but in the sense of “occupation.”
He was right. When I’m too good at my mom job, my household props its feet on me. When I’m too good at my daughter/sister/friend job, requests for favors mine my way. When I’m too good at my desk job, clients demand an instant response. Like this, task occupies life, leaving little room for anything else.
Before forty, I believed proactive goodness, expressed via helpfulness, would deepen my relationships, even the one with myself. But, it hasn’t—hard as I’ve tried, the only thing that being too good at my jobs has deepened is my efficiency, for which I’ve received a show of thanks as a reward.
But the thing, precisely, that forty has no time for is show. Forty probes: I get that it’s fun to love me when I file your taxes, but can you love me the same if I don’t? The answer, I’ve found, is no. I am not loved the same because now there is no performance of love. Forty shrugs: that’s totally okay.
We seek to be supportive, cooperative, giving, but such efforts shouldn’t drain us to the bone. When doing things for others (or for their expectations) involves systematic self-effacement; eventually, both receiver and giver become trapped in a mutually unfulfilling parade of thanks. When you release yourself from performative orbits, you release others as well, even if it initially leaves them in a lurch that resembles crisis.
I am here to tell you that the systems around you will recover and reset. But there is a catch: the unyielding spine of forty can cut. My husband crushed me when he bluntly derailed our orbit. I, too, have witnessed forty’s verve over-sharpen my tongue.
Pull away, if you can, gently. Let the love show go lovingly if only to save time by preventing conflict. Manage your midlife crisis—wait, scrap that—manage your midlife awakening so well none can tell you skipped the show.
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