I used to be a lot more fun.

There was a time, it feels like years ago, when every free moment was seemingly spent amusing my kids (and myself in the process). But lately, that isn’t the case.

Granted, these days there is far less free time to speak of; plus, the boys no longer consider me their primary source of entertainment. Both factors render my services more or less unnecessary, which is a justifiable excuse for the dulling of my comedic timing, but it’s more than that. I often feel like I’m actively avoiding fun.

To be fair, some of the blame comes from our family’s transition from monarchy to democracy. Increasingly, the kids have their own interests and ideas. What used to happen because my wife or I said so has now become the result of vote and negotiation, sometimes contentious. Bartering for good times is tiresome, and it can cast a shadow of disappointment over the best of ideas before they even have a chance to prove themselves worthy.

Such is the price of kids growing older. We’re all tall enough for the ride, and everyone needs an adult ticket.

Over the past year, the overwhelming focus of my work has shifted from parent-centric writing to trauma-heavy annotation and promoting social causes. It’s incredibly rewarding work, but beyond exhausting. The kids have papers, testing and homework. They have practice and meetings and responsibilities they would prefer to ignore. There is the stage of teen drama. My wife works 80 hours per week dealing with the public, and — fun fact — the public doesn’t always provide the healthiest of takeaways. All this comes constantly coated by the news of the world: a loop of negativity, violence and hate.

That isn’t to say we don’t have our laughs or adventures. It’s just that the seriousness of real-world issues and endless pressures have made something we once took for granted more of a special occasion.

This reminds me of an old story about a jar filled with rocks. Observers accepted the jar as full. Then, it would be topped with pebbles that, following a slight shake, filled the crevices between the larger stones. Once again, the consensus was that the jar was at capacity. Scoops of sand would then be dumped upon it, the grains falling into place despite clogging the hourglass with nope.

That trickle of sand is the tickle of time. It is the game of chess in the coffee shop and the hoops we shot a few days ago. It is the silly songs I still sing each morning to sleepy, teenage groans and a notable lack of requests

It is fun finding a way to fit into our packed lives, one grain at a time.

Perhaps it isn’t that I was once more fun. Rather, fun was once more obvious, easier and tangible. It has gone from abundance to a precious commodity, and there is value there, too.

I totally had more hair, though.

Photo: © Vadym / Adobe Stock.

“Let it go,” my wife instructs whenever she catches me in front of the mirror of our bathroom vanity, pinching my jiggly love handles. I’m staring at the reflection of a body in transition.

I’d heard about the softer side of fatherhood – the research that links declines in testosterone and muscle mass to becoming a father – but I never thought adding one word to my identity (dad) would introduce a two-word certainty: dad bod.

You may recall the term’s explosion into pop culture in 2015. Clemson University sophomore Mackenzie Pearson published an article that went viral, titled “Why Girls Love the Dad Bod,” in which she claimed women are more attracted to men whose physiques are “a nice balance between a beer gut and working out” than gents with washboard abs. (Step aside, Joe Six-Pack.)

But as I approach the age of 45, I’m realizing dad bods are less about what women want and more about how a man sees himself in relation to what he once was and what he aspires to be.

Dad bod creeps in

The first signs of my dad bod appeared in the fall of 2014, shortly after the birth of my daughter, Emarie. The preferred notch on my belt seemed snugger than usual, thanks to a bit of squish around the waist that I chalked up to the sleep deprivation and questionable meal choices that mark the rite of passage for legions of new parents. I also had just turned 40, a milestone age that is known to mess with many a metabolism.

Life went on, but I refused to accept that me and dad bod were becoming a thing.

I ran charity 5Ks. I experimented with intermittent fasting. I lifted weights. But with each passing year of fatherhood and marriage, the outline of my abs slowly morphed into a miniature muffin top.

By the time Emarie was 2 years old, she had taken to resting her head on the pillow-like softness of my belly. She loved the fluffiness of it all. Me? Not so much. As a dad, I wanted to look and feel like a protector, a parental Guardian of the Galaxy. Fatherly flab was not part of my mental picture.

Then shortly before my 44th birthday, a small fold of fatty flesh developed under my chin. Sort of a gently sloping sag resembling a hammock between trees. I noticed my post-workout body aches and stiffness lingered longer than usual. And unruly gray hairs started appearing with regularity in new or unexpected places: my eyebrows, my nose, my chin, my temples, the crown of my head, and even my neck. For the first time, in a physically tangible way, I could see and feel myself aging.

More around the middle, mid-life

It seemed no coincidence these physical changes mirrored the dramatic shifts unfolding in my mid-life. My wife and I bought our first single-family home, concluding a gauntlet of paperwork, anxiety and excitement. I quit my job as a vice president at a public relations firm and started a new gig with a global company. And after a year of navigating the health insurance labyrinth, we secured autism therapy for our daughter only to face a challenge common to parents of special needs children: transitioning to new routines.

Through it all, my body changed and adapted to the season of life I found myself in. It did so in sickness and health, in good times and in bad, through poor sleep and deep worry, without complaint or reservation as revealed by the clean bills of health that came after annual physical exams. A sense of gratitude grew within me about the resiliency of my body in the face of life’s challenges.

It dawned on me that my strive to be fit is neither a desperate clinging to fleeting youth nor an attachment to a beach body aesthetic. It’s a rejection of the “dad bod” trope as reflected in this irreverent definition in Urban Dictionary: “The type of physique a man ‘earns’ when the increasing pressures of work life, married life, and especially fatherhood no longer allow him the time or drive to maintain a hard, toned figure. As a result, what was once a sculpted, chiseled frame digresses into a soft, flabby heaping pile of I Don’t Give A Sh*t Anymore.”

To be sure, I don’t expect to return to the lean runner’s body of my college days or the svelte waistline of my 30s. I just rebuff the idea that I’ve let myself go.

I still give a sh*t.

Dad bod assessment and acceptance

For me, dad bod is now about shedding societal ideals of manhood and physical virility – visible abs, thick chest, broad back, muscular arms and legs – so that I can make room for the man I am becoming, one who understands, to quote Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince, that “what is essential is invisible to the eye”: love, trust, faith, friendship, empathy, honor.

I don’t appear to be alone. A 2018 nationally representative survey commissioned by the gym chain Planet Fitness found that “sixty-two percent of men with dad bods feel that having one has improved their lives. These men feel less concerned with their appearance (43 percent), are more accepting of themselves (42 percent) and are more confident (25 percent).”

It’s body positivity at its finest.

My friends in public health may caution against embracing dad bod as the new male norm, pointing to research that shows excess abdominal fat increases the risk of death from heart disease. It’s an important, sobering point that has all the sway of an old-school “The More You Know” public service announcement. It needs an update.

As I see it, saying yes to dad bod means saying yes to self-care, the kind of care men especially don’t do enough, the sort that can help prevent disease because it encourages making time each day for your body – and mind. That could be time to hit the gym, to rest, to eat healthier, to take a long drive, to be with those you love, to play a sport, to get a massage, to practice meditation or even make that long-delayed medical appointment – whatever it is that helps you be the best version of yourself. That version may have a few extra pounds. It may not run as fast as it once did or be as strong. But it’s here. And being here for ourselves and our families is the essence of Dad Bod.

“Chase me! Chase me! Please! Pretty pleeeeease!” my daughter Emarie, now 4, screams excitedly. The ritual is always the same. I stand up, raise my hands, curl my fingers into claws, and growl like a bear (she likes that part). Then off we go. Running through the kitchen, over the living room sofa, down the steps of our split level, and finally to the family room futon where she tries to evade my tickles by hiding headfirst under a blanket. She doesn’t care how I look, just as long as I’m there.

Dad bod photo by Towfiqu barbhuiya on Unsplash

The 40^th birthday party my wife threw for me was legendary – the next day’s massive hangover being evidence enough.

My head pounded on that first official day of my fourth decade as I trudged out of bed and began picking up the remnants of the past night’s celebration.

As I emptied the second half-full beer can of the morning, I mumbled, “F*ck 40.”

My tone was dismissive – as if I was saying something snide like, “I’m better than ever” or “age is just a number” or “40 is still sort of a millennial, right?”

Maybe I was trying to convince myself.

The hangover, though, has not gone away. Four months later, my solemn disposition persists. And, whether I brand my subdued mood as a mid-life crisis, depression or just a funk – the fog has been heavy, real and has lasted far too long to ignore.

F*ck 40.

I’ve started calling this mood my “fine fog” – the state of being neither great nor terrible, not good or bad, not well or sick. I am stuck being “fine.”

There is a loneliness of living in neutral. Little has been written to help guys struggling like this. Talking to my buddies about how I’m feeling isn’t appealing either and, face it, men generally stink at emotional discussions anyway.

It is up to me to solve this. But no matter how much I tried, nothing lifted my “fine fog” – and that made me feel worse.

How could I not be “great?” I wondered. I have a great spouse, five great kids, a solid career path and relationships with friends that others covet.

It must be turning 40, right?

F*ck 40.

When I started feeling down, I thought the approaching holidays would help me regain my vigor.  But no jingle bells, no silver bells, not even a trip to see my extended family helped. The fog continued to loom.

That’s when I started to realize that I might not be so fine.

When back at home after another fine day at work, I turned to my wife, “I think something is wrong, hun. I can’t seem to shake this funk. You all seem so happy, and I’m just not.”

She nodded. We talked for a while.

As it turns out, those around me had taken notice of my fine fog, too.

Later that night as I drifted off, I dismissively mumbled, “F*ck 40.”

How I’m beating those 40th birthday blues

I was at a tipping point. I had to change. Fine, for me, just is not good enough.

From the next morning on, I’ve tried.

I can’t say I’m happier than I was as a carefree 21-year-old. I won’t say I don’t have fleeting thoughts of self-doubt or of fear or of feeling unprepared or unworthy.

My fine fog does still roll in – but I try to burn it off quickly. I do so the only way I know how – through my family. After all, being a dad is what I do best – so it stands to reason that lifting the fog has to involve my wife and children.

My family is a case study in energetic happiness – and, I need some of that immediately.

My kids bounce out of bed each day.

My wife smiles more than she frowns.

When my kids see someone – a friend, the school crossing guard, anyone – they get excited.

Each of my five children fights to extend their day – rather than looking forward to it ending. 

I’ve been working on modeling these simple behaviors – except maybe the whiny, crying 4-year-old’s “I’m not tired” tantrums each night at bedtime.

Today, I’m good. That is light years ahead of the “fine” I’ve been stuck in for the past half year.

I want to be great, though – to match the way I feel each day with the tremendously fortunate life I now have.

I’ll get there – I have to believe that sunshine waits out there, somewhere.

But, until the sun permanently burns off the fog, it feels cathartic to, from time to time, say, “F*ck 40.”

40th birthday fog photo: Harman Abiwardani on Unsplash

Welcome to my midlife crisis. According to a random dictionary app, middle-age starts at 45, which I turned months ago, and lasts until you run out of excuses. To belabor the point, I was only able to read said definition because I use the largest iPhone font known to science. I’m not even trying to hide it (not that I could — it’s freaking huge). I am, apparently, in crisis mode.

And I always thought there would be more sports cars.

Wikipedia states that a midlife crisis lasts two to 10 years, and can be triggered by changes in an individual’s sense of normalcy. This includes the loss of a loved one, job stress or any number of societal pressures. Kids are probably on the list.

I fit most of the requirements, and frankly, I feel most of them, too. Loss has shaped me. My employment is on the ebb, to the point I fear the tide has left me. There are politics, bills, pets, meetings, traffic, family, health, and you get the picture. I know from pressure.

But do I understand it?

That isn’t to say what I have faced hasn’t been terrible. It has. It has been beyond the pale, breaking me for all to see and then sticking around long past when the cards stop coming. But I am fortunate to live in a place where support is readily available, and even if empathy isn’t, sympathy makes an effort. The scars may not fade, but they are at least afforded the chance to heal. I consider myself hashtag-blessed. All of which leads me to wonder, what if my midlife crisis is nothing more than another phase of privilege?

For instance, do you know what my biggest regret is so far today? I accidentally ate three waffles. I’m not proud of it, nor do I care to justify it. It just happened. There was a moment of toaster confusion, too much syrup, and then nothing but the sweet lingering of memory. I’ve made bigger mistakes, and most of them tasted downright awful by comparison.

However, rather than update the internet of my struggle, I didn’t. In the time it would take to tweet a joke about overeating junk food, someone, somewhere, is coping with the demons of body image, while others are facing a life of hunger. I couldn’t let go of a damn Eggo. I will survive.

Still, I like to make jokes on Twitter. I like waffles. My restraint was more perspective than pressure, but having an awareness of the former doesn’t always mean that we should heed it. Jokes help people, too.

The point? Embarking on a midlife crisis seems to me the antiquated version of a rain cloud emoji. I have problems, some of them terrible and unfixable, some that don’t really even matter, but mine is not a world where I am judged or threatened due to my gender, ethnicity or sexual identity. There are not any planes dropping bombs overhead. I’m a 45-year-old white guy living in Los Angeles. What the hell am I complaining about?

There are countless real crises in the world, and my aging isn’t one of them. What if, rather than wasting the next two to 10 years pining for a sports car, I turn my attention toward making a difference — that I spend each day setting an example for my children and encouraging them to put their backs into it? We’re likely to fail, a lot, but some normals need to be changed, and that starts with me, with us. There is no better time for facing a crisis than now, midlife be damned.

And it probably goes without saying, but that waffle thing will probably happen again.