I watched a cat die today. D called me in tears to break our appointment. She told me that Mimi, her cat, had been sick for a long time. I asked her if she wanted me to accompany her to the vet. My friend had to periodically hydrate and medicate the infirmed animal. Mimi was thin and fragile. D had adopted the cat and guessed she was around 17 years old. D got in my car and put Mimi on her lap. I shut her door. We knew we were going to a funeral.

I was never a cat person. For one thing I am highly allergic. Most of my bad dreams or nightmares have a cat in them. The only affectionate memory I have of a cat is Kim Novak in Bell Book and Candle. This day I would feel for the cat and its owner. This wasn’t just an old cat. It was a helpless dying creature that my friend had loved for many years. I love my friend and today her sadness was mine.
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During a q&a at a recent screening, a woman sitting in the middle of the theater stood up after being called on and shouted out, “Turn around we want to see your ass.” I was taken aback by the audacity and silliness of the request. I said, “If I was a woman and a guy in the audience asked me to do that, you guys would blow his brains out.” The audience giggled nervously. I got caught up in the circus and I turned around. They applauded. Later in the lobby, a pretty young woman of 23 or so asked me to take off my shirt.

Maybe I should have felt flattered. I could have laughed it off and walked away a bit more prideful. “Hey, dig me. All that working out is paying off.” Instead, to my surprise, it felt depressing. I have never been in a situation like that. It was disturbing to think that some variation of this behavior is an everyday occurrence for women.
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After a screening, we always have the audience ask questions. Some of the questions are funny. I was once asked to turn around because a woman wanted to see my backside. I asked her what she would think if a guy asked a woman in my position to do the same. The audience giggled nervously. I, of course, acquiesced and did my best Project Runway pirouette to high pitched hoots and whistles. Another woman asked, “Since you lost so much weight, do you, like, have, like, folds of skin hanging from your stomach and, like, if you do, would you consider, like, having them surgically removed?” This was asked in front of 160 people. Maybe it’s just me, but I would not have the testicular fortitude to ask either of these questions to someone privately no less in front of a crowd. But, hey, that’s just me. Maybe I’m just prudish that way.

People also make poignant remarks and ask heartfelt questions. Last night, a lovely young woman about 20 years old approached me after most of the audience had left. She looked into my eyes and wept. I took her hand and she continued to silently weep. I embraced her and she said thank you. She never told me the meaning of her tears. Sometimes the pain is too big for words. Maybe the most important thing to do is to hold a safe space for someone to express their sadness. For a moment we took the same breaths and held each other in wordless compassion.
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I used to be free. Now I have an agent and a publicist and they occupy the same body. Before this dual edged and very sharp knife entered the drawer, I was a will of the wisp and devil may care kind of guy. Now that May I Be Frank has developed momentum I’ve stumbled into deadlines and commitments. I am supposed to write at least three blog entries a week, twitter, write and respond to emails, etc.

That may not sound like much but it is a challenge to me. I am confronted with the ordinariness of my life. I feel like I’m supposed to come up with funny or wise anecdotes that reflect my daily experience. Well, sometimes life ain’t that interesting. Sometimes when it is really juicy it involves people I can’t mention because it will result in my death or put a physical end to my sex life.
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I feel like I’m going nuts. I just saw the movie Nine. Daniel Day Lewis renders a wonderful performance of an Italian in the midst of an operatic midlife crisis. The British and Scandinavians have drama. Italians have opera. In one scene, Lewis is driving in Rome and describing his panic attacks to his mother, Sophia Loren. “Mama, I don’t understand what is happening to me. I can’t think, I can’t write, my chest is tight and pounding. I don’t know what’s wrong with me” A giant weight was lifted. In that instant I was absolved of my craziness. I am not alone. Even guys seemingly together feel this way. Thank you Jesus.

What exactly is a midlife crisis anyway? The term was first used in 1965 by Elliot Jaques, a Canadian psychologist. He describes it as a period of profound self doubt experienced during the so called middle years. This self doubt is generated by a perception the passing of youth and the commencement of old age. This is when some guys throw any sense of shame out the window and engage in behaviors that make me feel defensive about being a man in my fifties.
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