You, sir, are responsible for either ruining my life or, else, redeeming it from the dark and devilish evils so commonly associated with mid-life crisis.

With my 45th birthday fast approaching, it is not any too soon to begin having the time tested, socially unacceptable, yet socially accepted mid-life crisis-complete with all of the traditional accouterments such as fast cars, wild women and hard liquor.

As much fun as this style of mid-life crisis may sound, I think it would really irritate my new bride just a little. So, employing all the wisdom acquired from years of being a Catholic cleric and now a Bible thumping Episcopal priest (You know, I am discovering that some members of our denomination dismiss the Bible and others blatantly refuse believe in a theistic God anymore-terrible facts to which your own writings so eloquently attest) I have chosen an alternative route along which to carry out that irresponsibility expected by our culture and normally associated with middle age-namely fly fishing.

Although fly fishing is a redemptive alternative to fast cars, wild women and hard liquor (Perhaps it is even more satisfying. Many fly fisherman quiver in pseudo-sexual ecstasy at the mere thought of raising a big trout on a little fly. Imagine what happens when they actually hook one!) it most certainly can set in motion the financial and social ruination of a man.

As I sit here, smoking my pipe-good fly fishermen always smoke pipes, bad ones smoke cigarettes-I have before me an ORVIS fishing catalogue. In the dawn of time when Satan tempted our first parents, he disguised himself as a snake. Now, when he attempts to seduce a John Gierach "wannabe" he disguises himself as a fly fishing catalogue, whispering, "Did your wife really say, 'There's no way in your miserable little lifetime you're ever going to spend $1600.00 on a bamboo fly rod?'"

Fortunately for me, I bought a beautiful bamboo rod in the days of my youth. However, therein lies the root of my potential financial disaster. You see, I have only one cane rod, not several. Fly rods vary according to action, length, and the line weight they carry, each rod being better suited to a particular type of fishing than the others. Simply put, I need more fly rods. But, why bamboo, especially when it is so horrendously expensive? Continuity, my dear bishop, continuity. Bamboo provides a historical link to the golden age of fly fishing, when the thought of casting anything else was nearly blasphemous. The feel of a cane rod sends the fly fisherman on a nostalgic journey back to his roots, which is especially nice when he is not catching any fish in the present.

Did I mention stuff? Fly fishermen need stuff, and lots of it. Reels, lines, leaders, waders, wicker creels, fishing vests, and flies-thousands of flies-dry flies, wet flies, nymphs, terrestrials, streamers, and even bass bugs for those times when the trout fisherman feels like slumming it. The perennial need for stuff is exceeded only by the perennial expense of it all. Financial ruin is a distinct possibility.

Furthermore, fly fishermen can easily become social aberrants because their sport inevitably undergoes the metamorphosis from hobby to habit. Eventually the ever popular "Life is a b***h and then you die" philosophy gives way to the "Life is a trout stream" philosophy. Everything becomes analogous to some aspect of the trout stream or fly fishing. Take my word for it, this really irritates people. Worse yet, marital bliss might suddenly rush right over the dam, crashing upon the rocks below. When a man starts regarding his wife's breasts as highly developed pectoral fins then you know his weighted nymph of a brain has definitely drifted into a very deep hole. Now, I am not saying that I am guilty of such an atrocity, but I personally know of an Episcopal preacher who desperately needs a swift kick in the seat of his waders. And my-I mean, his-wife might just do it for him.

Since there are not enough hours in the day to day dream about catching monster trout, imaginary fishing trips have to be taken during the wee hours of the night. I have this fear that late some evening I will dream about hooking a seven pound Brown, whereupon I will bolt upright in bed and yell, "I've got a big one!" and my startled wife will say, "I wish it were true dear, but you're only dreaming. Now go back to sleep."

A social misfit who views the world around him as a bunch of suckers in the trout stream of life, a middle-aged man setting himself up for financial devastation when he really should be preparing himself for the illusion of retirement-is this where I am heading? If so, my dear bishop, it is entirely your fault. After all, upon your sage (no pun intended) advice I picked up that old Orvis Madison I bought so many years ago and started fishing it once again. In no time at all the spinning crap-I mean, outfit-was buried in the basement. Casting cane has become a compulsion. Already, I have ordered a beautiful custom 4 weight from a rod maker in Connecticut, and next year I am planning on finagling a 5 weight parabolic from the same guy.

Did I mention that my preaching has suffered, thanks to you? You have no idea how embarrassing it can be when "Repent" comes out as "Mend your cast." And ever since I publicly chastised those apostolic fishermen for not practicing catch and release, my congregation has been murmuring terrible things about the questionable state of my sanity.

Well, Bishop Hackle, your counsel has caused me no small amount of consternation, but, at least, my wonderfully patient wife never has to worry as to my whereabouts. If I am not in my study, I am in the middle of a trout stream, and mid-stream at mid-life is not a bad place to be.

Cordially yours,