I’m going to avoid the cliché by sideswiping it, a postmodern skill I’m still working on.  I was born too late for The Irony Age, but I try to keep a handle on sentiment and hope for the best.

 

Here it is, anyway: A man sits at his keyboard and writes, “For the longest time, I thought ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ was about…”

 

See?  Narrowly missed that one.  I’ve been reading versions of it for the past couple of weeks, ever since Elizabeth Gilbert’s best-selling book became a film.  

 

It’s always written by a male-type person, and the blank is filled in by the usual suspects but occasionally funny ones (my favorite, in an article that’s now become unfortunately lost in the jumble of stuff I read online, was by a guy who thought it was a sequel to “Eats, Shoots & Leaves,” another best-seller, by Lynne Truss, about proper punctuation).

 

For me, looking back, I’m thinking I probably assumed “Eat, Pray, Love” was a book about nutrition, probably by Michael Pollan, although it could have just as easily been a self-helper or a screed, a memoir from a small-town pastor or the autobiography of Ms. Rachel Ray.  I don’t follow books as well as I probably should.

 

I know now, of course, although it didn’t take the movie to open my eyes.  A wildly successful book does wonders for exposure, and Gilbert turned out to be not only a wonderful writer but a witty, bright, articulate, self-deprecating, honest and attractive person, easy to read and to watch.

 

I’ll also note that I have absolutely no intention of seeing this movie, not in a million years, which is about as firm a statement as you’ll get from a guy who came across “Mamma Mia” on TV one day while idly surfing and ended up watching the whole thing.  And humming ABBA songs for a week. 

 

So, not so firm.

 

What occurred to me in all this excitement, the new film and revisiting the book, was that this is an old story.  “Eat, Pray, Love” was about a personal journey, about a person striking out at an oblique angle to a conventional life, breaking molds and finding stuff out.  

 

Gilbert chose to head abroad, delve into food and culture and mysticism and religion, and even as accessible and funny as the story seems to be (I haven’t read the book) it feels familiar.

 

From T.E. Lawrence to Richard Burton to Jack Kerouac to Robert Pirsig, stories of quests, trips and adventures of personal discovery are old news.  

 

The difference, of course, is that throughout most of human history (there are nice exceptions), they were experienced and written about by men.

 

And no, I’m not trying to equate Gilbert with Marco Polo.  I’m just saying: It’s not surprising that a gifted writer who also happens to be a woman might have success, even spectacular success, in telling another version in the personal-journey genre.  

 

There’s a difference, of course.  There’s no avoiding this cliché: Men seem to be from one planet, and women from another, better-organized planet (There’s an idea for a book.  Maybe spruce up the title).  

 

I know a lot of women who have hit middle age in mid-stride, exploring options, getting graduate degrees, starting businesses, changing cities.  I also know a lot of men who have turned 50 and immediately bought either a guitar or a motorcycle.

 

I bought weights, by the way.  My wife tolerated this, and knows it wasn’t inspired by a last gasp of testosterone or an image of nice (if aging) pecs, but just one more attempt to slow the descent.  

 

A few hours a week I go down to the basement and lift some light weights, hoping to offset a sedentary lifestyle and a son who offers to lift my coffee cup for me so I won’t strain.  

 

What happens in the basement stays in the basement, but I’m not hitting the beach any time soon (although I said that about “Mamma Mia”).

 

She tolerates this because she knows my history, knows that I either create my own habits or become created by them, and knows which is the better option.  

 

She has her own story and her own journey, far more interesting than mine, and about to get more interesting.  

 

I might write about this at some point, but mostly I wanted to note that we celebrated 27 years of marriage last month.  The amount of eating, praying and loving over nearly three decades, more than half of my life, might make a dull book, but it’s still a good story.  

 

As is this: I struggle with those weights for the same reason I do other things I might otherwise avoid.  Sometimes you just meet someone who makes you want to be a better person, and sometimes in their personal journey, they let you tag along.