Midlife Crisis? What crisis?

I'm ever looking forward to my midlife crisis. It could happen in the next 5 or 10 or 15 years, and when the time comes I don't want to have to scramble. I've earned this society-sanctioned, automatically forgiven Responsibility Time-Out, and I intend to do it up right.
To my knowledge, I have a wide range of choices. Should I ... have an affair with a 19-year-old girl? Quit my job and join the professional mountain climbing circuit? Surprise my family by selling all my worldly goods, gamble the cash away at the casino? Well, gentlemen, I've thought about it a lot, and I've made my decision. I'm going to go for ... drum roll, please ... the Sports Car.

I don't know what kind yet. Something convertible, of course, in cop-baiting red, with chrome dripping all over the curb. Fifty-four speakers. Something that goes just fast enough to rip the paint off road signs on the way past.Xzibit and the good people at West Coast Customs may have a few pointers.

See, with a sports car, you get to kill two birds with one stone. First, of course, you get respect ... mad respect. Mostly from 10-year-old boys, sure, but from plenty of the ladies too. It's a status symbol that clearly states: "This guy's stinking rich, he's successful, he's cool."

But you also get to play with the toy of all toys, that delivers pure, unadulterated pleasure and puts a smile on your face that you'll wear until the day you die (wrapping your new car around a telephone pole somewhere along the motorway, presumably).

And the benefits don't stop there. Wife needs you to run for groceries? No problem. With a car like that, you'll be more than happy to get her cheese from any far off town market. "See you in two weeks, sweetheart!"

You don't even mind getting a ticket in one of those babies. You know you're not getting off with a warning--hell, your sports car is the best thing that's happened to the traffic police in a month--so there's no need to play nice. When he asks if you know how fast you were going, tell him you were only in second gear. Keep revving it up while he writes out the ticket, comically cupping your ear and pretending you can't hear him. Then peel out a little when the damage is done ... just enough to throw some gravel in his grille.

By now you're probably wondering just how much sports car you can afford. Remember, this is a midlife crisis, so let irrational exuberance be your watchword. One formula that works is: S/4 + C + R + K, where S is your salary, C is the cash advance limit on all your credit cards, R is your retirement pension plan expressed in rumpled 20s, and K is, or was, the kids' college fund. Just remember to save enough money for a couple of weeks alone in a motel and maybe a nice "Sorry I sucked all the yolk out of the nest egg" card for your wife.

The planets aren't yet aligned for me to jump off the rails. But one day soon, guts and credit permitting, I'll be that high-speed jerk cutting you off on the motorway: loud hip-hop music I don't quite understand drowning out your impotent horn-honking, my long glossy afro-hair cut flopping in the wind.