As a child, my dad would speak of ‘the midlife crisis’ with the sort of looming dread usually reserved for a fourteenth century European facing down the bubonic plague. He was so preemptive in his worry, that ‘the midlife crisis’ became personified; a monster waiting down the tracks. Now in my 20s, the midlife crisis is just another item on a list of things I thought would have so much more bearing on my adult life; the Bermuda triangle, quicksand, limousines, Yellowstone.
But while I’ve spent my time worrying about a person’s ‘midlife’, a far more insidious beast has crept along. Dad, I take your midlife crisis and raise you the quarter-life crisis; the tyranny of which I'm currently enduring. If sports cars and affairs are the pillars of your generation’s existential wobble, extreme sports and moving down under are ours.
