Monday is my birthday. I'll be 43 years old. If I double 43, I get 86. So, in a very real sense, I'm in the middle of the years appointed to me. Middle...the word seems to be everywhere.
I'm not just starting out. I'm not on the tailend either.
I'm in the middle,
reminded of Bly and his colored Knights.
First Red - anger, energy, shouting.
Final Black - crank, ashes, giving up blame.
He speaks of the middle though, the White Knight -
imagination, skill, humor.
The fleshy ring around my rosy mid-section
revealed itself one mirrored morning lately -
I inquired well, hello, where'd you come from?
This is not an extended love handle.
This is a small life preserver thrown
over my head now stuck around my middle.
My armor's changing.
My two oldest kids are in middle-school,
that two year stint in the shawshank of puberty.
They are planning their escape, a spoonful of days at a time.
Good for them. Get busy living or get busy dying.
There are knaves there though, knaves that threaten them.
I'll stay close by, within earshot, able to ride in when needed.
You just call out my name.
Then there's middle-sex.
I want it, but confess to the queen some nights -
good lord I'm tired.
She smiles and we wrap ourselves in what Kinnel called
'the familiar touch of the long-married.'
Now make no mistake, buster, some nights its about the sex.
But some nights its about the sleep.
So this is now. Middle-Earth. Middle Ages.
My politics are moderate, as are my clothes.
I drive a mid-sized car.
These are the days of the White Knight.
Emerson said 'all great men come out of the middle classes.'
And so I buoyantly yawp -
look out world!