We all acknowledge the somewhat conspiracy theory-sounding
idea that somewhere in the world there’s a bunch of psychologists/psychiatrists
discussing trends in human society off which a new buzz word can be created, thereby
spewing forth copious amounts of money to be made by the ever increasingly evil
pharmaceutical companies. Picture a dimly lit room, a circular mahogany table
surrounded by grey bearded tweed jacketed geezers, pipes blazing in mouths
thatched with yellow stained moustaches…
“I recently heard of a case where somebody felt the need to
place a banana in their bum and sing the star spangled banner”.
“Brilliant, place it on record, we’ll call it Bananarama
syndrome”
“All in favour, say I”
A chorus of “I’s” erupt. And so a new syndrome is born. – Case in point is a recent study completed by
Swedish researchers at the Karolinska Institute which found that creativity is
closely linked to mental illness, um, ok? I know a lot of creative people, none
of them feeling the urge to cut off their ears in honour of a whore. Wasn’t
that syphilis the one painter dude had? I’m sure the creativeness had nothing
to do with it. What I’m trying to get at is speculation is rife with regards to
all these buzzwords; mid-life crisis is one practical example.
Does it really exist? How can we objectively identify a
person experiencing this?
That’s just it though, isn’t it, it’s a subjective matter.
Each individual would experience this in his or her own way determined by
several variables; my opinion swaying towards wealth, health and each sub
variable determined by the two aforementioned ones. The mere fact that we like
to categorise certain of these traits pointedly indicates the fact that human
nature dictates we label things we don’t fully understand.
I’d like to place another buzzword(s) on the table, start-of-life
crisis. Yah, I know, it’s a mouthful, so let’s call it by its real name, growing
up, those two words that we men have been infamously accused of not doing.
I’m not talking about the boyish things that never seem to
dull our curiosity, like lighting the kak out of a huge bonfire (who can
seriously withstand the call of those flames enticing us to throw more wood on
me goddamit, or racing bikes/trikes/cars whether it be remote controlled or on
your Xbox, or lighting a fart, or seeing who chickens out first on a bet, or
playing touchies with your boep hanging over your speedo like a felled bloody hippopotamus’s
head . No, I’m talking about commitment towards life partners/wives/friends,
job satisfaction, personal growth, the fear of growing old, the need to be needed and all the other
so-called girly things we never divulge to anyone, by choice or otherwise.
I can only speak on behalf of myself and my experiences, but
surely there are other guys out there in the same predicament.
We’ve all gone through it. You’ve recently finished school;
you’ve been told you’re good at maths and accounting and so you decide that
accountant sounds like a solid career move. Or your stickman won fourth place
at the Goodwood Rotary club’s Arts and Crafts festival and you feel the need to
be the next Da Vinci. You study for four years, have a few girlfriends, party,
get on your parents nerves and eventually finish. Now what? You’ve got a
massive student loan, all the theory (hopefully) and you’re rearing to go. You
get a job at the bottom of the food chain and enjoy it at first because let’s
face it; you don’t know what the world’s about just yet. Four years later you’ve
paid off your student loan, you’ve got a steady girlfriend and recently moved
in. Even conceded the purple curtains looks nice with the new bed throw, or
whatever they call it. Everything’s new to you, and although there are bumps in
the road, you’re enjoying the newness of it all. And then you reach the
plateau. You start questioning things. Things that made sense previously now
seem so alien you feel so utterly lost the newest Garmin wouldn’t be able to get
you out of this funk. Where you previously measured your happiness by the
amount you earned, the new car, designer shoes, amount of alcohol you could
digest it now becomes apparent that you hate your job and want to become a
trapeze artist, mime or a fucking bergie living in the hills of Table Mountain.
That’s the crux of the problem I’m trying to get at. We all
know we need to grow up, but what are the criteria? And then it hits you;
square between the eyes adorned by the newest Ray Bans: That horrible sinking
feeling of knowing you’re measuring your life against the same fucking rules
you strived to avoid while growing up. How do you measure the level of
happiness against all the other criterion of growing up? Easy. Seems you give
up. Seems you start giving in to societal pressure by first buying a house and
car you can’t afford, having a baby you adore but really can’t afford either
and wish you’d made a safer world for, taking pictures to reminisce about later
in life and eventually sit on that veranda of your coastal retirement home in a
South Africa so fucked up not even a Bill Gates donation will make a dent in
the national debt. Thank you instant gratification culture, we owe you, big
time…
