My birthday is coming up next month. I will be, by my count, even more ancient than I was last year. I’ll be far enough from 40 to make it irrational to lie and say I’m actually in my late 30s. I’m solidly, unequivocally in middle age.

And when you’re in middle age, you do a lot of looking back, soul-searching and other highly unproductive activities. I’ve been doing that even more thanks to being dumped by my girlfriend a month before my birthday. Yes, I am a 41-year-old man who uses the term “girlfriend”, a word that infantilizes me just typing it. What am I, a teenager sobbing to a Smiths song? In spirit, yes. I am.

At this age, I have a litany of failed relationships behind me, including a failed marriage that produced my eight-year-old son. I’ve had two breakups just in the last 365 days. And these were not flights of fancy. These were serious, with various “I love yous” and plans made and trips taken. I’m the king of serial monogamy, a sensitive nerve ending that sincerely tries to make it work even if it definitely isn’t.

The women I date are not that. They’re reserved, strong, and maybe a little bit unwilling to open up at first. Then there’s me crying over a sporting event or a perceived social slight or career stumbles. I think, what’s my problem? Why am I blubbering in front of this person........

© The Guardian