How to ace middle age

A Field Research Field Guide

Hey Friends,

Welcome back to Field Research, the dark humor and satire publication written and produced by me,

Amran Gowani

.

I turned forty-three on Monday, which firmly ensconces me in the most dreadful of life’s phases: middle age. But, rather than mope about and rue the missed opportunities, poor choices, and squandered talent of my youth — like every other pathetic piece about middle age — today I’m going to show you how to flip the script on the nadir of existence.

This one’s spicy. If you dig it, please forward, share, “re-stack,” and the like.

The cover story of the 2010 Christmas double-issue of The Economist dove deep on a concept called the U-Bend, which suggests people reach peak misery at forty-six years old, then become progressively happier until they check out. I read the piece just after I turned thirty and the idea has been lodged in my broken brain ever since.

From the 2010 double-issue of The Economist.

But here’s the real revelation: unlike most bullshit research conducted by economists, psychologists, and sociologists, this finding has been repeatedly confirmed. And it holds true even after controlling for variables such as gender, race, culture, religion, income, geography, and children.

If you’re reading this preposterous newsletter, I’ll safely assume you’re not grotesquely wealthy, which is the one true path to happiness.

If you’re reading this preposterous newsletter and you’re middle-aged, I’ll safely assume you’re a broke-ass prole, or you have just enough money to qualify as middle class, which Laffer Curve evangelists consider a fate worse than death.

Either way, I’ll safely assume you’re a miserable twat.

Here’s how to remedy that.

Step 1: Abandon your dreams

Let’s start with the big one.

The day your dad went out for a pack of cigarettes and never came back was the day your dreams of batting cleanup for the Yankees evaporated.

The day you finished sixth in the Little Miss Prepubescent Pageant at the county fair, and your mom said you’d never be pretty enough to escape this godforsaken town, was the day your dreams of becoming a Hollywood starlet died.

It’s time to move on.

Impossible dreams create impossible expectations, and impossible expectations create certain disappointment.

You didn’t accomplish everything your little heart desired, and you never will.

So what?

Focus on what you have accomplished. Are you a loyal friend? Are you present for your kids? Have you managed not to die in a mass shooting? Or overdose on street fentanyl?

If so, you’re winning! Lean into those victories, because they’re the ones that matter.

When I turned twenty-three I wanted to become a university professor. When I turned thirty I wanted to become a CEO. When I turned thirty-seven I wanted to become a CFO.

Now I’m forty-three, write a newsletter only 45% of my subscribers read, and only 3% pay for, and look after two ungrateful children whose only objective in life is to drive me insane, and I’ve never been happier.

Step 2: Embrace being washed

There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to say it.

Nobody wants to fuck you anymore.

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far way, I used to be jacked like Ram and strong like Bheem, and other humans expressed consensual and enthusiastic interest in fucking me. Now I have a dad bod, and my wife would rather look at erotic pictures of dim sum than be in the same room as me.

This is great news.

Fucking is the source of all of humanity’s problems: people.

I’ve had conjugal relations with my wife twice since 2015 and both times we produced an antichrist. That she’d rather die than touch me is one of life’s small mercies.

So, drop the CrossFit, save the money you’re spending on Botox and dermal fillers and tummy tucks, and accept your prime breeding years are over. At your age the marginal utility of a fancy donut far, far exceeds the marginal utility of a sexual favor anyway.

Innuendo? What innuendo?

Oh, one last thing: if anyone does express interest in fucking you, they obviously have deep-seated psychological issues, or are plotting a scam, and you should run away as fast as possible.

How do I know?

Ask yourself this: would you fuck you?

Step 3: Invert the curve

Look, there are plenty of reasons the happiness curve hits its nadir in middle age.

Your parents are on their way out, your career’s stalled, you hate your boss, you’re washed (see above), you’re worried about saving enough for retirement, and your own health problems are starting to crop up.

Meanwhile, if you’re a parent, you’ve likely got small-to-teenaged children who soak up every imaginable dollar, every unit of time, and every ounce of patience.

This sucks, and you should be bummed out.

But the problem with middle age malaise is it overlooks the flipside of the pseudo-parabola. Middle age is when you hit peak powers.

Despite the burdens mentioned above, you’re still mentally frosty, and now you’ve got the added advantages of experience and wisdom.

Young people are just about fucking useless, and old people don’t give a shit anymore (not coincidentally, that’s why they’re happier).

Middle-aged people get shit done.

You don’t ask a seven-year-old to rig an election.

To propagate a decades-long opioid epidemic, you need to have mastered B2B sales, B2C marketing, bribery, accounting fraud, supply chain management, government lobbying, statistics, and regulatory capture.

Medicare-eligible dictators are routinely overthrown by their middle-aged counterparts.

Bottom line: you’ll never be more dangerous than right now. Capitalize.

Step 4: Savor your spite

Residing in the middle necessarily means you’re being squeezed on both sides, which is rarely pleasant.

On one, young people — including your children — think you’re lame and boring AF, are already blaming you for their future problems, and can’t wait for you to die.

On the other, baby boomers are milking the problems they created — the ones young people will blame on you — for all they’re worth. To add insult to injury, because of the U-Bend, they’re becoming happier in the process.

This blows. And it isn’t fair. And you should be big mad.

But I’m going to let you in on a little secret: living well is the best revenge.

If you manage to survive forty more years, you’ll get to watch tens of millions of boomers drop dead, and see the planet transform into an ecological, political, and technological hellscape unsuitable for future human life. To add insult to their injury, you’ll get to ride your euphoric U-Bend to the end times!

So eat right, exercise, and take care of yourself, and not because anyone wants to fuck you. Do it so you can die with the biggest possible smile affixed to your spiteful face.

Step 5: Stop pretending

This one’s simple in principle, difficult in practice.

Be yourself.

Religious fanatics and right-wing nutjobs and baby boomers have demeaned and guilted and persecuted and shamed generations of people for not adhering to their amorphous, hypocritical ideals.

That’s what bullies do.

True freedom is being whoever TF you want to be, as long as you’re not harming others. By the way, that last clause is what actually bothers religious fanatics and right-wing nutjobs and baby boomers. Disenfranchised minorities simply want equal opportunity and fair treatment. LGBTQ+ people just want to live their lives and love whoever they want. Nazism, by definition, requires violence and terrorism and hatred.

So, if horseshit societal constructs have held you back, if you’ve suppressed your true self, or your true interests, or your true desires, or you’ve felt like you’ve had to pretend to be someone else, channel your inner Elsa and…

Step 6: Reap those amplifying returns

I’ve saved the most important point for last.

In mathematics there’s a simple concept called diminishing returns. If you’ve got $100, and you earn $5, that’s a 5% return (e.g., $5 divided by $100).

Now you’ve got $105. If you earn another $5, that’s a 4.8% return (e.g., $5 divided by $105). As you repeat this process the denominator goes to infinity, and the return on the marginal $5 drops to 0.0%.

Life is the exact opposite.

Your denominator is finite, and your maximum return is 100.0%. If you’ve got 85 years in you, and you’re on year 83, the return on that year of your life is 97.6%. Next year it goes to 98.8%, then it hits 100.0% and that’s all she wrote.

You can’t know exactly how big your denominator will be, but each passing moment the return on your life is amplifying, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.

You’ll be dead before you know it. So quit sulking, and quit pussyfooting around, and quit self-sabotaging, and get out there and live your goddamned life.

You only have one, and if you’re middle-aged like me, it’s halfway over.