Tom Brady Is The Cure For The Mid-Life Crisis

I turned 33 last week, nicotine addiction be damned! Baking in my “reliance” on alcohol and my loyalty to Malaysian airliners, I’d certainly shake the hand of the Deal or No Deal model if she presented me with a briefcase with a 66 in it.

This is my mid-life crisis. Halftime of a game that is one double bacon cheeseburger away from being called on account of the slaughter rule.

While some use this time to soul-search, buy a Harley, or grow a pony tail, I find myself paralyzed by the realization that 12-year-old me—a wide-eyed dreamer—would resent 33-year-old me for the sentient cluster of failed potential I’ve devolved into.

Is this rock bottom, you ask? I’ll get back to you in a week. And yes, that is a flip phone and a bread sandwich.

Yesterday, when I logged onto the internet to browse through Facebook’s People You May Know feature in hopes of finding a woman who could save me from myself, I stumbled across the first photos of Tom Brady in a Buccaneers uniform.

Six weeks away from his 43rd birthday, and Tom Brady is hotter than an essential worker right now.

I’ve been a Patriots fan for my entire pathetic 33 years here, but when I saw Brady in pewter, red, and black, I suffered through the same feeling that washed over me when I saw my ex become Facebook official with a guy two inches taller than me and a jawline like a young Dick Van Dyke. Just because you hate the idea of something, doesn’t mean you can’t respect the execution.

After a Slim Jim and a quick power cry, I was surprised with a vaguely familiar sensation that resembled something like hope.

If myself and the Tampa Bay Buccaneers have something in common, it’s that no one expects anything out of us. If Tom Brady, who is aging into the high risk COVID demographic, can single-handedly turn a franchise so useless, underachieving, and incompetent into something of value, I too possess the power to change things I previously thought were destined for mediocracy. I no longer have to take a backseat to my own life and wait for the Enterprise Rent-A-Car driver to give me the tools to be my own boss.

New me starts today. Thanks, Tom.

I think I’ll go for an empowering run around my apartment building.

After this cigarette, of course.