Michael, of course, is one of the main characters on the television series “thirtysomething.” ABC canceled it last week to make room next season for its more usual fare. In a way that’s a blessing; one more hour of my time free from network offerings. Time buyers, please take note.

But back to Michael and his insomnia. By his and almost anyone else’s standard–including that of his dead father–he was a success. He had climbed to the top of a Philadelphia advertising agency and was poised to replace his odious boss, Miles Drentell–sort of a Sun Tzu in a bespoke suit. Michael was supporting his family nicely in a suburban home complete with porch, fireplace and dining room; there was enough extra money to dabble in real estate, dine at Yuppie cafes and decorate little Janey’s birthday with snazzy favors, but never quite enough left to finish the kitchen. He had, in short, power, position and prospects. And, underneath it all, he was unhappy with what he had become. His work was clever, shrewd and empty. He couldn’t protect his closest friends: he couldn’t stop his self-destructive colleague Elliot from continually running afoul of Miles. He couldn’t prevent his best man, Gary, from getting killed in an automobile accident. He was, in the marvelous daydream of one episode, caught on a carousel, chasing the perfect American blond goddess, holding on to a post as the speed increased.

Can I stop for moment? he pleaded.

No, she said.

Michael’s eyes widened and he woke up. Is it any wonder he couldn’t sleep? Nor could I or my friends?

To understand why this is important, you must keep in mind the poverty of the middle-aged male’s range of conversation. Once they get past sports, office shenanigans and the great ideas and events of the day, there is often silence, embarrassed or otherwise. Here is an extreme example: my friend Karen left her husband of 20 years. She told him she didn’t love him anymore; in fact she doubted if she had ever loved him. He was a fine person and a loving father but an inadequate mate. And she went on with her life, as best she could, surrounded by a circle of comforting friends. Her husband soldiered on placidly. No muss, no fuss, just a few letters to lawyers. Finally, worried that he had no outlet for his sadness or his fury, she arranged for her husband’s best friend to take him out for a drink. At the end of their long evening, the friend called Karen. How did it go, she wanted to know. What did he say? Well, said the friend, the husband didn’t have much to say about anything at all; he made it sound as though everything was pretty much OK.

“thirtysomething” was a vehicle for changing that. That wasn’t its main purpose, which was to garner Nielsen points, but it was a benign consequence. The show offered models of behavior for the stymied and supplied a vocabulary for the speechless. Not that the men ever could just flow; nope, on “thirtysomething,” as in life, those talks were left to the women. But consider one show last year, written by Winnie Holzman, when newly rich Michael offers struggling Gary a loan to invest in a real-estate deal. Gary is resentful and envious and tempted. Michael is hurt and misunderstood and annoyed. This is how they work it out in Michael’s office:

MICHAEL: It’s not strange. It’s money. You don’t like that I have it? Well, I’m sorry. I have it. I’m stuck with it.

(Silence. Uncomfortably long.)

GARY: What I said, the other day? I shouldn’t have said it. I should have just said–thank you. But, anyway, I’ve had a few hours sleep, and I had them–in a row, so I guess I was wondering…you know. If the offer still stands.

(Michael is silent, not looking at him.)

GARY: Well, c’mon. Say something.

MICHAEL: It’s up to you. I’m still willing to do it.

GARY (not easy to say): Thanks.

MICHAEL: Well, I mean, I’d be getting something out of it. It would be like–having company.

GARY: As opposed to…

MICHAEL: Being all alone. So it’s up to you. If you think you can handle it…

GARY: I just wouldn’t want to do anything that could…

MICHAEL: Screw up our friendship?

GARY: Right. Like it already…

MICHAEL: Almost did?

GARY: We better not do it. I’m sorry.

MICHAEL: Don’t be sorry.

GARY: But I am.

MICHAEL: I know.

While I sit here at my computer terminal waiting for this piece to be edited, a remarkable thing is happening. Colleagues are sending me unsolicited electronic messages asking that I mention the episodes dealing with workplace tensions, or a sibling rivalry that never died, or the lure of infidelity, or the struggle to make marriages work. The creators of Michael and his little group were not substituting their lives for ours; only a fool would tell viewers to shut off the tube and go get a life. We have lives; the value of the Tuesday night meetings–when they worked–was that art, even on the small screen, reflected our lives back at us to be considered anew.

So Michael hit a terrible midlife crisis a fortnight ago and left none of us resting easily. All the show was asking was this: what are you doing with your life? That doesn’t fit nicely into a prime-time schedule. Now the rest of us will have to answer the question, for ourselves, alone.