Midlife holiday gift guide

As if you couldn't tell from the lingering after-shocks of Black Friday, Cyber Monday, Why Not Liquidate Your 401K Wednesday and Let's Just Sign Over Our Mortgage To Amazon Sunday, the holidays are just about here. In fact, those of us within the Jewish faith get an even earlier jump this year, with Hanukkah starting at sundown today.

Let me be clear, I am no Scrooge. I love just about everything about the holiday season. I love the chill in the air, the lights around town, the time spent with family and friends, the look of terror on my wife's face as the kids drip candle wax over her brand new coffee table, etc. It's all good to me.

Except for one thing. It's the harmless, caring question that stresses me out when it comes from my wife every year.

"What do you want for the holidays this year?"

That question, usually followed or preceded by, "Everyone wants to know," normally starts an unfortunate series of events. First, my brow furrows, creating deep crevasses in my forehead that don't disappear for a week. Second, a line of stomach acid begins to form and slowly marches up into my esophagus. Finally, as I contemplate whether Pepto Bismol mixes well with gin, I answer the same way I always do.

"I have no idea."

Why can't I answer such a simple question? My kids can rattle off a fully annotated list faster than they can spell "college fund" (complete with directions to Target). I suppose I've botched enough past giving moments that my wife even keeps a running gift suggestion list that grows faster than I can address it. It's always one (cozy pajamas) step forward and two (wine glasses and a new rug for the living room) steps back.

I've never made a list before. Until now.

In the spirit of helping understand my true desires, and to help those shopping for other clueless men over the age of 40, here's my list of what I really want for the holidays. Let's call it the Midlife Crisis Holiday Gift List For Men.

A motorcycle -- yes, that's right. Let's embrace this midlife crisis thing head-on. It's a cruel twist of fate that we tend to want some things as soon as we look ridiculous using them, but there it is. Put me on two motorized wheels that let me feel the breeze in my face. And I want a leather jacket and a helmet with some kind of wild beast on it, preferably not a squirrel. I won't ride too fast, but I want to feel like I could. I'll stare danger in the face and laugh as I pass him on the freeway (making sure to signal any lane changes properly and to slow down when any cars, you know, actually come near me).

Hair -- it's important for you to know that when we talk face-to-face, I'm only listening to you about 95 percent of the time. The other 5 percent of the time I'm thinking about your hair, and how much I want it. I want free-flowing Fabio hair that flies in my face during a strong breeze (most definitely on the aforementioned motorcycle, as my hair spills out of my protective Ferocious Squirrel Helmet). I want to have to go to a hairstylist and say something other than "short hair makes me look less bald, right?" I want to have to worry about moisturizing my roots. I want split ends. I'm not even sure what they are, but I want them.

A nap -- sometime mid-afternoon, possibly after a football game. On the couch, no kids allowed within 5,000 feet. Preferably nacho-induced.

Shameless gluttony -- speaking of which, have you ever seen the Albert Brooks movie Defending Your Life? It takes place in a purgatory-like setting as the recently deceased learn whether they are ready to move on from their earthly lives. The food in purgatory is apparently sensational, and you can eat anything you want (and as much of it) without getting fat or sick. That's what I want. I want one night to eat anything and everything. I want at least two bites of everything in town. I want to eat off of your plate if it looks better than what I'm having. I'll settle for some kind of VIP status at Five Guys Burgers when it opens, but I don't want to stop there. I want more. And I don't want the pounds that come with it. It's my gift list, and the normal rules of biology don't apply.

Library book tribute -- did you know that you can "sponsor" a book at the Westport Public Library? What can be cooler than that? Just go to the library, make a donation, choose a book and fill out a card and book plate with the tribute details. There's a kind of immortality to the gift, a chance to dedicate a book of importance to a loved one that will live for years within its pages. I love this. As direction, I want dedications to me in the latest copies of Ripped Abdominal Muscles For The Truly Fit, Fixing Electrical Problems Without Asking For Help and Great Husbands In Modern American History. You know, to reflect who I really am. Really.

A tattoo -- no, not for me. That would be ridiculous. For my wife. I want her to get a subtle yet sexy tattoo that has some deeper significance that only she and I would understand. We could giggle to ourselves as we admire the image on her ankle. We'd laugh as her parents gasp in horror at the sight of their little girl defacing her body. And we'd wait desperately for the advent in technology to let us take it off quickly and painlessly before we no longer want to see a wrinkled and faded Bart Simpson on a daily basis.

Since I'm blessed with a particularly generous family, my list should probably be longer. I also want an unlimited iTunes account, an enormous dog diaper (and a staff to dispose of them), the discovery of an unreleased Beatles album, my own satellite radio show, caffeine-free Dr. Pepper (what's taking so long?), a babysitter on call, my own express lane to an open window seat on Metro-North, a phone call from Malcolm Gladwell begging for help on his next project, the secret fried potato recipe that we can't get out of my friend's mother, a cell phone that doesn't black out on that stretch between Stamford and New Canaan and a pear tree (forget the partridge).

In reality, I know that none of the above is going to happen. And I'm grateful for the generosity of those who are kind enough to even think about me this year. The act of giving presents is a sign that we love and care about each other, and I'm thrilled to just be able to participate in such a joyous tradition.

Just know that I'm stashing those Amazon gift cards. They'll start selling motorcycles someday, and then I'll be riding my hog with a full head of hair and a full belly, my tattooed wife riding behind me. It could happen.

In lieu of gifts, Michael Wolfe, a Westport resident and monthly columnist, will accept e-mail comments at wolfeml@optonline.net.