Initially, I found myself pondering a peculiar question: Why are there so few places to buy quality beads? It struck me as odd that our bustling city has numerous shops selling trendy e-cigarettes and artisanal soy lattes, yet when it comes to sourcing a unique polymer-coated glass bead, the options are virtually nonexistent.
To clarify, I’ve never dabbled in beading, nor do I consider myself particularly crafty. Yet, during an unusual phase of my life, I fixated on the idea of launching…an artisanal bead shop. This whimsical notion represented my lowest point—a desperate call for help.
As a writer, husband, and father of three, I had been navigating a complex identity crisis. My career path included roles as a reporter, author, speechwriter, web developer, and music supervisor. Like many men in their 40s, I had heeded my strong feminist mother’s advice, following my passions and drifting through a series of creative, albeit financially unstable, endeavors.
In stark contrast, my wife, Claire, had been building a formidable career in television since her college days. With relentless dedication, she crafted script after script, ultimately creating the acclaimed Showtime series Weeds and the groundbreaking Netflix hit Orange Is the New Black. As her career soared, the financial contribution I made to our community-property marriage became increasingly insignificant. Consequently, I took the backseat, immersing myself in domestic duties—handling carpools, managing home repairs, and organizing travel plans. I even became more involved at the school and committed to healthier living.
I spent many pleasant mornings at a local coffee shop with a group of men—my fellow “Plus Ones,” as I called us—who were married to successful women. While I cherished my time with the kids, I couldn’t shake the feeling of insecurity. Simple tasks like filling out insurance forms that asked for the “primary cardholder” left me feeling uneasy. I occasionally experienced bouts of uncharacteristic aggression—like zooming out of the school parking lot or creating chaos at a birthday party.
That’s when my curiosity about beading emerged. Thankfully, I eventually found my way back to reality. I’m not sure what exactly shifted my perspective, perhaps a conversation with my wise partner. I can envision Claire raising an eyebrow, using that unmistakable tone of hers, conveying that my imagined bead shop would ultimately be a dismal venture. I realized I had no genuine interest in beads or beading; it was merely a misguided attempt to feel relevant.
Instead, I returned to writing—not out of desperation but because I had stumbled upon a compelling story worth telling. I delved into narratives about male caregivers and female breadwinners, exploring the dynamics of men embracing household roles while women pursued their careers. I wrote about men who nurture, cook, and support their accomplished wives.
This was the first time I wrote without an assignment or an editor, unsure whether my work would ever see the light of day. It was both daunting and liberating, serving as a form of therapy. Drawing from real-life experiences, I expanded my narrative to explore the insecurities I faced as a caregiver, following those feelings to their extremes. Unlike me, my protagonist acted on his darker impulses, leading to infidelity and neglect of family—a stark reflection of what could have been.
In essence, I navigated my midlife crisis through fiction, sidestepping the typical pitfalls of substance abuse or reckless behavior. Now, with my novel published, I find myself back in my supportive role as Claire continues to excel in her career. While I wish I could say I’ve completely reconciled my feelings about being a supportive partner, I still grapple with moments of masculine anxiety.
I often feel a twinge of embarrassment about my wife being the primary breadwinner, even though I understand the significance of my contributions at home. Tasks like managing carpools and preparing dinner sometimes feel insufficient, and I still experience discomfort when holding my wife’s purse in public.
Nora Ephron astutely addressed these issues back in 1972, emphasizing that despite societal evolution, we carry ingrained notions of gender roles. She noted that while the women’s movement may rectify societal issues, it struggles to clear the clutter in our minds.
Despite these challenges, my experience of fictionalizing my midlife crisis has led to personal growth. I’ve gained a deeper understanding of my role as a caregiver. It’s crucial to recognize that no one, regardless of gender, should feel diminished for prioritizing family care. Often, support spouses, especially men, feel overlooked or unimportant.
Rather than succumbing to my insecurities, I’ve chosen to focus on the joy of raising three wonderful children and supporting an incredible partner. Whether it was fate, luck, or the progress made by earlier waves of feminists, I now find myself riding shotgun in a fast-moving life led by a remarkable woman.
In moments of clarity, I remind myself not to compare my success to Claire’s. This comparison only leads to self-pity. Ultimately, I know that beyond her role as a breadwinner, she is my soulmate—the person I’m meant to share my life with. Holding her purse may be challenging, but when we enjoy Vietnamese pho as a family, everything aligns beautifully. While I may be a Plus One, I wouldn’t trade my position for anything else.
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