Where have you been all my life?

Well, hello there.  Sorry, I've been a bit slack for the last six months or so, but I had a tumble from (one of) my bike(s) and felt disinclined to jot whilst recuperating.  Still, I've mostly cupered now, a little impressive scar tissue notwithstanding, so here goes nuttin'.  Again.

Without wishing to sound like a broken gramophone record, I'm still in the midst of the middle-aged ennui doldrums.  Still in the same lacklustre job and still in the same house.  The house is part of the problem actually.  It's lovely and in a lovely street in a lovely area.  It's perfect for our needs, comfy and well-appointed.  So, we won't be moving again - well, not for a while anyways.  And this has thrown my life, or rather what's left of it, into sharp relief.  I can't continue to plough on like this until they cart me off in the back of a private ambulance and start liquidising my meals.  I need adventure - spiritual, sexual, intellectual and actual.

But where to find it?  For years I thought the classified ads in Private Eye might provide the answer, but never had the nerve to answer any.  I assumed, probably rightly actually, that you had to have been to Oxford and come down without a degree to do so without looking like an upstart.

Cher, cher, cher, cher, cher, cher...changes

I was pondering the nature of my misery the other evening.  I won't lie to you, because I respect and love you, but I am a melancholy chap by nature.  And as one's nature is immutable, this has always been the case with me.  I wish that it were otherwise, but it ain't.  That's why I give self-help and positivity short shrift.  It can't work because it relies on the subject being able to change an intrinsic trait.  That cannot happen.  You might as well produce a book that claims it can make the reader shorter, or change the colour of his eyes.

The only way to deal with a pessimistic bent to the be disciplined.  One must simply get on with things that one finds boring, or worse, fear-inducing.  That's the downbeat's lot in life, and it's a negative feedback loop of course: the more one does this things, the more miserable one gets, but at a slightly slower rate than by not doing them.  Miserable, eh?  

I overcome the ennui of the day-to-day by filling my every waking moment with mental and/or chemical stimulation.  Sitting and meditating on life is an absolute no-no.  That way, disaster lies.  This is starkly at odds with the prevailing wisdom de nos jours, which advocates inwardly-directed practices like transcendental meditation and mindfulness in place of  outward-facing ones like trampolining or adultery.  This universal clamour to self-examination is akin to suggesting that everyone should take up base-jumping or try acid because some people gain pleasure and insight from these practices.  One-size does not fit all.

The problem with this condition is that it gets worse the older you get.  The reason for this is that less and less changes in your life as you age, and change brings at least the possibility of improvement.  As you get older, you move house more infrequently, don't change careers, find new sexual partners.  You don't even make new friends; you just gain colleagues or people to hang about with.  This statis has a depressive effect on everyone.  That's what the midlife crisis is in effect.  But for the depressive, beginning from an already low happiness quotient, its net effect on the psyche can be disastrous.  

The same effect also explains why lottery winners and Olympic gold medal winners experience feelings of sadness and loss in the immediate aftermath of their seeming good fortune.  Olympians think that winning medals will fulfil them and give them purpose for the rest of their days; the rest of us think we'd be happy with a shitload of money in the bank or a solid-gold car.  It also explains why people buy bigger and bigger tellys even though the programmes get worse and worse.  "I'd be happy watching Britain's Got Talent if the screen were 14% bigger."  This, I'm sure you'll agree, is a floored and fanciful notion.

What a depressing thought...

Down wit da yoot

I've been pondering a return to time-trialing of late.  That's bicycle time-trialing, not driving around the alps in a two-seater Bentley with a pair of flying goggles and a silk neckerchief.

I used to do a fair bit of this kind of thing when I was younger, not young, you understand, younGER.  I really enjoyed it too.  But then I packed-up, for reasons I can't properly fathom.  Anyhoos, after a 14 year hiatus (Great Scot - has it really been that long?), I feel increasingly desirous of a return to competition.

I've been trying to analyse the reasons for this change of heart.  When you get to a certain point in life, it's important to start scrutinising the motives for your actions carefully, lest ye be acting at the behest of the dread midlife crisis.  When this happens, all dignity is lost.  It's for this reason, for example, that 20-stone bald hedge fund managers take up snowboarding, or leave their wives and move in with teenage Russian slappers.  That, then, must be avoided.

I think, however, I'm mooting this change for the right reasons.  I've kept myself fit, and I do enjoy racing bikes.  Mind you, it's important I keep an eye on matters in case the mania escalates; otherwise I'll end-up buying a one-piece lycra gimp suit, a yard-long aero helmet the shape of a bidet and a five grand carbon fibre bike.  These things, needless to say, are the cycling equivalent of buying Ludmilla a pair of crotchless scanties.

My trouble is that I'm as thin now as I was at 20, and I've kept my hair (nightmare, 'eh?).  It's all too easy, then, to fool myself into believing that I look pretty sharp dressed like an adolescent.