Crisis Level Orange

I’m worried that I’m in trouble.
Is it possible to have a midlife crisis at 31? And if it is possible, does that mean I’ll only live to 62?
The reason why I ask is because the other day I bought a pair of tennis shoes with orange shoelaces. No. The tennis shoes came fully loaded with the orange shoelaces. I did not use orange shoelaces as currency. I bought the shoes and the laces together with money via a debit card. Although if the dollar keeps dropping, you may want to hang on to those old shoelaces, just in case.
So, am I too old for orange shoelaces?
It’s not exactly a convertible or a hairpiece, just a pair of Pelé-endorsed Pumas with some of the brightest darned orange shoelaces you’ve ever seen. So bright, in fact, the other day a truly middle-aged lady at work asked me if they glow in the dark. I asked her if she wanted to come over and find out. I’m not sure what I meant by that, but I’m sure I could have been fired merely for suggesting it.
I’ve always loved odd, old-school sneakers, but my wife says I dress like a teen-ager. I think what she means is that I dress like a lazy, disheveled teen-ager. I almost never tuck in my shirt (it’s a good way to hide your gut), I wear tennis shoes to work most days (now with orange shoelaces), and I rarely wear a belt (who needs them, when you’ve got sweatpants!). And I do all of this while eating candy, listening to hip-hop on my iPod and updating my MySpace page.
Thankfully, rather than serving as an excuse to eat Skittles in sweatpants, I think this midlife crisis has become more of an inspirational wakeup call.
Now that we’re both in our thirties, my best friend Cory and I have this mantra we recite in about the second quarter of every fiscal year that says “if we don’t do it in our thirties, we’ll never do it.” Of course, by “do it” we mean make our wildest dreams come true. Of course, by “make our wildest dreams come true” we mean publish that novel, sign that record deal, direct that film, adopt that Angelina Jolie.
My plan is to tackle three of my life’s goals in one amazingly marketable project: With no musical training or natural ability to carry a tune, I’m going to record an album; then I’m going to write a novel about a 31-year-old man with no musical training or natural ability to carry a tune who records an album. I sell the book and the CD together in a nice boxed set, maybe with a forward by Bob Dylan or a ringing endorsement from John Updike. I’ll even let Oprah put her book club stamp on the front.
Once that project hits it big, you know Hollywood’s going to want a piece of the action. I’ll agree to a deal, but only if they let me direct. It will be a huge summer blockbuster, even bigger than Transformers. Finally, when it’s time to release the DVD, we’ll stuff all three works of art in the skull of a faux-bronze bust of me and sell it as a special collector’s edition holiday gift pack.
And don’t forget, a pair of my fashion line’s Crisis Level Orange Shoelaces would make an excellent stocking stuffer.