The Mid-life Crisis: A Family Affair?

I think my entire family is experiencing a collective, yet interesting, mid-life crisis.

Husband, who never actually travels on what most would consider an even keel, has recently allowed his hair (what's left of it) to gain the length he once maintained in the early 1970s.

He's taken to muttering about Corvettes under his breath and has begun wearing out his Grateful Dead Cd's. He recently bought himself a truck the size of Rhode Island, has taken to sucking in his stomach while examining himself in the mirror and is suddenly interested in attending every rock concert that comes down the pike.

These little oddities don't disturb me as much and another transformation he's going through. He's suddenly become inordinately interested in the cooking (not merely eating) process, although I suspect that's only his subtle way of telling me he can get it to his mouth faster if he prepares it himself.

He has actually been observed picking up the newspapers usually strewn about the family room, initiating a load of laundry on his own (I didn't even realize he knew where the washer was), and (OK ... once) forsaking the ever-popular myriad of sports-on-demand channels in favor of a - get this - movie. When caught at this last novel exercise, Husband insisted he was just resting his remote-flicking hand, the constant use of which I believe has induced a pesky case of carpal tunnel syndrome.

Becoming proud, but rather unready-to-face-the-inevitable grandparents a few years ago produced extreme anxiety attacks in both of us, although I handled it much better, only attempting to insist the kids refer to me as their aunt in public. Their parents, ungrateful brats that they are, both laughed that one right out of the park. Husband, who got immediately tagged with 'Poppy,' bears the endearment manfully, clenching his jaw in joy every time he's so addressed.

Adding to the hilarity, my eldest son, through an accident of Irish ancestry, has inherited the family curse and sports a full and luxurious head of predominantly gray hair at the tender age of 28. This little development, unceasingly amusing to me (I went gray at 18), has led to a loving, yet one-sided relationship between Sonny and the Just For Men line of hair products, and (this is my favorite) occasionally being mistaken for his own children's grandfather.

My only daughter seems to be the least effected by all of this nonsense, possibly due to the fact that her personality is so laid back and cynical (don't know where she gets it), that nothing at all surprises her or throws her for a loop. She'll get hers eventually.

My middle son, still thrashing in the throes of puberty, has decided he's 18, and fully expects to be handed the keys to the family limo any day now. This child, whose eternally breathless, whispered claims of being "too tired" to a) Pick up his clothes; b) Flush the toilet; or c) Get into the shower, has me upping his ante of daily vitamins and occasionally stooping to taking his pulse.

However, every time I have to move the car in order to give Husband room (half a block) to ease his enormous truck (fearfully referred to in the family and neighborhood as Moby Dick), Sonny II leaps from whatever piece of furniture or floor he's exhaustedly reclining upon and snatches the car keys from me as he hurtles for the front door, yelling, "I'll get it," over his shoulder.

No amount of explanation or even openly displaying his birth certificate will convince this kid that he was born when he was born.

Despite his oh-so urgent anxiety to huddle behind the wheel of a car tearing along the freeway, however, Sonny II still hasn't risen above baiting, teasing, tormenting, harassing, hitting, insulting, threatening, intimidating, or otherwise pounding his younger brother when the mood strikes.

The little guy is in a class by himself when it comes to the signs of apparent mid-life agony.

His mid-life crisis began the fist time he complained of pain in the joints, a stiff back and shin splints at the tender age of 10 or so. A man of 80 would admire the ease and finesse with which he often pleads his case. He has perfected his own style of hypochondria to the point of actually wearing his father's back brace, Ace bandages on each knee and wielding his grandfather's old shillelagh in order to navigate down the stairs, while whining about how many years it will be until he can get his driver's license. Of course, if a friend happens to knock on the door, the cane goes flying and the brace gets ripped off. The Ace bandages stay just for conversational and/or sympathetic value.

I expect it won't be too long before I finally give in to my own mid-life crisis.

As soon as I decide which kind of sports car I want.