Midlife Crisis At the Edge of College Years

We've got "so much to look forward to" and we're enjoying "the best time of our lives" -- the life of a college student.

Not me. I'm 21, and I am in the midst of a midlife crisis.

No, it's not the perennial senior slump, and it's not a typical case of depression. Zoloft, Prozac or St. John's Wort are of no help.

I guess in part it is as a result of a botched national election, Sept. 11, Osama bin Laden, our crashing economy, the fact that I won't be able to get a job and not being able to find "The Facts of Life" reruns on Nick at Nite.

The list could go on.

Sure, I've followed the typical regimen of a moderately pessimistic college student.

I listened to Dylan, read Vonnegut and have tried repeatedly to get drunk and go home with a freshman girl. But I just can't make that walk to South Campus from Franklin Street anymore.

I've resorted to less conventional coping methods.

I've called Miss Cleo every day for the past week. I figure if fortunetellers are good enough for the U.S. government (they've been called in as "consultants," really) they're good enough for me.

Her Jamaican words of wisdom offer welcome clairvoyance and comfort.

Not only do I know now that my last five girlfriends have cheated on me, but I have a son in Sioux City, Iowa, apparently. Much love to you, kid.

On the flip side, she tells me that I am going to stumble upon a large sum of money in the near future, and apparently I'm a demon in the sack.

Miss Cleo also knew that I had a birthmark on my right butt cheek in the shape of a sickle and hammer.

But she couldn't answer the big question: How could I, all 21 years of me, be experiencing a midlife crisis?

To that Miss Cleo could only offer, "I don't know 'oney, battcha betta do somfin 'bout it, pig ya head up."

Pick my head up -- with the world crashing down? With no woman to call my own? With credit card bills piling up higher than Neil Fingleton's mullet? (For those of you who don't know, Europeans are more accepting of mullets than Americans, so let's give Neil the benefit of the doubt).

I needed to turn to an even better source -- a person to whom most students go when they're feeling down -- my momma.

She unfortunately gave me the fluff that mothers always give (although I need it sometimes -- thanks, Mom). You know the deal: "We love you very much, and we know you can be anything you want," or "Don't worry what other people say," or "Are you coming home for Thanksgiving?" -- timeless stuff really.

I hate telling my mother, "I can no longer do anything I want" because I failed freshman English class and my grade point average rests around the number of senior class vice presidents we've had this year (it's two, for those of you not counting).

So, maybe I've depressed you. Maybe you can identify with me. I don't know.

Your first thoughts are always your best thoughts, and my first thought was to buy a nice Porsche and screw one of my co-worker's daughters.

Seeing as I don't have the loot and most of my co-workers don't have daughters, this is not a possibility.

Here are my real options.

Head to Players, down about five Holy Grails and end up face down in my underwear wading in my own puke next to a transvestite who goes to N.C. State.

Or date a girl with some loot so she can buy me a Porsche -- or at least a beer.

In the meantime, I've retreated to the friendly confines of my house memorizing "Cheers" episodes, trying to sing Woody Guthrie songs and "looking" for a job that doesn't exist.

Times are tough, and I'm doing my best, but what's a guy to do?

I've been perfecting my shuffleboard skills, getting ready for the new Nintendo and listening to whining hillbillies talk about women and beer.

I guess life isn't so bad after all.

Josh Baylin has no desire to speak with any of you this week. If you must, e-mail him at jbaylin@email.unc.edu.