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March 28, 2006: LILLY WHITE - MID-LIFE CRISIS ( See Readers' Responses )
I am watching a Lilly white midlife crisis, as white as refined sugar and as sickly sweet. This middle class man’s pure and sickening mid-life crisis is nauseating as can be. I feel he is a warning, a perfect fit for a "just say no," campaign to avoid appearing hopeless and stupid. He couldn’t be more obvious, unimaginative, simple, or American with his crisis. He is a Viagra ad, and I am forced to endure his performance. I must watch his actions, reactions and behavior from a front row seat, with lights too bright and as loud as if I was near the speakers meant for the whole house. This is in my face, this crisis, and it is not pretty, it is pretty ugly and I think, as ugly as a midlife crisis can get. Then again, I’ve not studied them closely, that is, until now.
This man is my neighbor. If I could ignore him, someone would point out his next move to me anyway. If I managed to stare straight ahead and enter my loft, I would still hear his crisis, and I think that is the plan, he needs to be noticed. He is noticed, and studied by others while they feel the sick stomach that goes along with this sweet time in this man’s life. It must be sweet for him; he seems to be having a blast. We, on the other hand, are afraid. I feel men are afraid because he is showing all the insecurities men have about aging, and woman are afraid that it could be their husband next, or maybe they are afraid, like I, that he will approach them, perhaps, sporting a new gold chain. God help us!
It started innocently. He lives in a series of lofts with his wife, (I am assuming it is his wife, I do not know.) I am of the city. Because of this, I do not know my neighbors. I don’t know their names, jobs, or families. I do not watch the action as people come and go, and I keep my business to myself. This is as I like it. I like to have my own private home in a place where everyone is all around you. Bad for the suburbanites, (but nicer for me,) we don’t have back yards, front yards, or a mailbox sitting in front of our homes. It’s great, privacy and company all at the same time. Action, outside our window, and balconies! (We have high and low balconies.) Now, we all have action to watch that I believe none of us bargained for when we came to this downtown community of upperline lofts. We all tried to mind our own business, that is, until this man stopped taking his meds, or whatever happened to him.
First it was just he and his wife. Yes, they dressed, in their forties, like high school students from some mid-west school in about 1950, "Happy Days." She, with her blond pony tail, made up of bleached hair and tied with a "scrunchy." She wore those suburban shorts, the long ones of colors we all avoid, pastel green, blue, and yes, pink. She put her little "has been," body, that one day might have been "cute," into these shorts with no- name polo shirts of colors such as white, and pink, bright pink, and very, very light pink. Her lipstick was pink too, and probably the "scrunchy" She was easy to ignore, in fact, I never saw her until he started acting up. She is, by all reports, Hispanic, but that is not what she looks like. She wears tennis shoes with crew socks. It is as if she’s about to break out into a cheer anytime. She was quiet though.
He was the same. He wore shorts, yes, those walking shorts, to the knee, brown, blue, and khaki. The same no-name polo, and yes, tennis shoes and crew socks. He dressed that way until it started, when it started, we should have seen the warning because out he came in the jeans. The middle aged man in the jeans. Not that jeans are unacceptable on middle aged men, but these are, these tight, "forgot my gold chain," jeans are offensive. This was icky to me, and to others, but still, we were not appalled, and barely noticed.
Then came the vehicles. The original vehicles they had were a Ford F-150 and a green Chevy suburban. An SUV, and another vehicle is obnoxious in some places and to some people: Those concerned with the environment, those who live in the cities of our country where it is impossible to drive, much less park, and to those who live at the heart of a city like mine, in a loft. (Loft reasons are: graduate students, couples like us who are without children finally and planning our next move, and those suddenly single who work in the area. We are a mobile bunch, this is why we are here, or we are people who want a home, of some sort, in the sun, and here, we have the sun of suns, we are a desert.
The parking of the couple’s vehicles was a problem for them. It seems they wanted front door access to their vehicles. This is hard to do with limited parking and assigned parking.
But it got ugly when he bought the new mustang. The new mustang was what started all the commotion. With that new mustang, tacky, ugly and not at all impressive, came the start of our guy going all out for recapturing his youth. The blue shiny mustang was the signal. The fact that it was a convertible was a REAL sign.
The following is complex. The parking of the now-famous Mustang, was complex, so below I attempt to explain:
When he bought his Mustang, he was at once in trouble regarding parking. There was an open spot near his home, but it was unassigned and that meant he had to secure that parking spot every day so he could show off his Mustang AND watch it every night. They developed a plan that was sort of like Musical Cars. When leaving, one of them would pull a vehicle out, and put it in the spot the Mustang proudly sat, to save it until the mustang came home. This meant that both Lilly white and his wife had to be involved in leaving: She or he would have to pull out the Mustang while the other moved another of their vehicles into the prized spot. After this, whoever was leaving with the mustang could go, while the other person could go inside and perhaps catch up on sleep. Coming home meant that one would have to pull their vehicle out of the Mustang’s spot and park it elsewhere so the Mustang could be put away in it’s display spot.
The life of the new Mustang went something like this:
First there were "look at the car" beer parties. These consisted of one of his friends; himself, his wife, and whomever passed by that even spoke to them and would accept a beer. The parties took place outside, in a parking area that is for lofts, some reserved, some open even though he lives a few yards from the swimming pool, Jacuzzi and the "anyone-can-use-it meeting room. (The room has a bar area, sofas, chairs, and a fireplace.) Despite all other choices, the parties that were a total of three took place by the Mustang on a sidewalk.
You may ask how I know about this display of oddly grotesque behavior, and why does this bother me. The answer is that one of my two balconies faces his loft dead on. I could not ignore it.
Next came the cover for the Mustang. It was black, a full cover, supposedly, (and I’m guessing here,) to protect the Mustang from the sun. He wrapped it everyday, unwrapped it everyday for about two weeks, after which, I am guessing he grew bored with it. He still has the cover, a person I know passed by him with it in his trunk. The car cover brought, however, another reasons for a side walk beer party.
Each weekend, whether it was a waxing or a new accessory, he had cause to celebrate, with his 80" top hits CD, and his lite beer.
After the cover came the very worst, for me, at least and I know for a few others, as was seen later, the vanity plate. The vanity plate read: "Git Som" and I am giving you the exact spelling.
That was all I could see, I stopped even looking down after that, and I turned my chair on my balcony completely in another direction. He tried harder at this point to get me to turn and look at him. He had before, each time I walked by his Mustang to come home, and he was outside. He found many reasons to be outside.
When washing the Mustang, he did it himself. With the worst 80’s music BLASTING, at least three large buckets and who knows WHAT oils and pastes in cans, he washed that puppy slowly, and easily, cherishing every stroke he made over the car. He loved it. I have never seen a man love to wash a car so much in my life. I haven’t’ seen that many men wash their cars but this man was in another place all together with his suds, pastes and sprays. It took him about an hour and a half. Thankfully, our homes are sound proof, one could shut their windows, avoid their balconies and get rid of the music. He and she even dressed for the occasion. She had her bikini top on with her pastel shorts and he had shorter shorts on and his ever-present muscle shirt. Gaudy is all I can say.
The end came quick and I knew it would. I actually mentioned it was a possibility. I woke up one morning, walked out onto my lower balcony and there it was, the final act, of the Mustang and his Lilly white, sugar sweet owner:
The tires where slashed.
No one ever, that I know, after living here for some time, in this high security community and knowing the management well, had ever had this happen. We are a quiet bunch and we ARE very secure because our system works quite well and we have a police station close by. None of this could protect that Mustang. It got it good and its owner should have been the target, as irritating as he was. The tires were slashed deeply and with expertise. It was planned.
I am quite certain it was an inside job, one of our community’s residents could not stand it anymore.
Now, the Mustang is HER car, and is parked wherever she can find a place to park. The plates, "Git Som," are on their Chevy Suburban, which HE drives now. Last I saw, their third vehicle was "for sale by owner," for 7000.00.
I shudder to think what he found to do next to ward off aging and boredom, and whatever it is, I don’t see it or hear it.
And that Mustang: Well, it’s still a Ford.
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OMG! "Git Som!!!!!" That sounds like something that'd be on a tag down here!
Thanks for making me laugh---I needed that!!!!
Hugs,
Colleen Shelnutt
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This was very funny, thanks!
Love the 3-person beer parties
Silent Storm
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It often strikes me as a bit sad how some people who have so much really have so little.
G.M.