Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Middle *!$#*@^!*& Aged

I am middle aged.

When I say that out loud or look at the words in print I sort of feel this lightning-esque jolt of fear surge through me. However it slowly dissipates when my brain reminds me that I still find farts funny, I laugh when someone says “boobies” and I can run pretty fast for a lumpy “middle aged” man. On the inside I feel very much like the adolescent boy that enjoyed diving into muddy swamps after Snapping Turtles and affixed a bath towel to the back of my shirt after seeing the first Superman with Christopher Reeve and then dove off our barn in Stafford Springs. Oh, like you didn’t try it.

Despite the fact that my heart, mind and soul feel like a child there’s no doubt my body is starting to age and doesn’t look like the svelte specimen of red-mulleted awesomeness that I was so many years ago. My father used to always joke about the “random pains” that would show up as he hit his forties and I recall having discussions with my grandmother Noni about the changes that began to happen as the dreaded “middle age” set in. One of her favorites was the look of her feet, which always terrified me because the only thing worse than discussing feet is discussing old people feet. When I look at my feet, or more specifically the big toe on my left foot, I see something that resembles a dirty broken windshield on the nail, with a variation in color and shape that’s nothing like the beautiful big toe I once had. Plus there’s freaking hair on the toes. Not a crazy bushel of it, but hair nonetheless, and it wasn’t there when I was trying to fly off my barn for fuck’s sake.

You’re only as old as you feel.I have heard that a million times and I really believe it too. Why should the number of years you’ve existed have any impact on what you love, wish to enjoy, how you love, play or speak? Other than those rules set by the state and federal government and could result in being locked away, where is it written that an old person can’t go balls out in anything they choose to do? Nowhere, that’s where it’s written I tell ya! However, I have noticed (in addition to my big toe) there are a few things that have been affected by being Middle Aged, and/or things that I have observed. Some of the most pronounced are:

-          Farting is always funny, as I mntioned, and a distinct and vital part of my Manliness. However, in the last few years the methane production has been amped up at a level that could make Yankee Gas send out a recruiter. It doesn’t matter if I eat Bananas, Toast, Cake, Water, Beer, Berries, Fish Tacos or Rice Cakes, or what-the-fuck-ever, if I swallow them it’s inevitable that the Abarian Pipeline is going to be busy all day. And forget about Beano or Gas-X  because all that does is add a new and worse taint to an already horrific odor. I don’t need to spend money to make farts smell even worse, thanks.


-          Let’s talk about ear hair, shall we? I know as we age the hair production in strange places begins to increase but nobody ever explained that as I hit my late thirties I should expect to have tumbleweeds violently pushing their way through my ear canal and trying to get out. Because the hair in that area is so light-colored on me, sometimes I don’t notice until it’s too late and I recall a date I was on a few years back where the woman had remarked on my earrings several times and that she thought they were “cool”…so when I went into the bathroom at one point I naturally scoped them out on myself and almost went into full cardiac arrest when I saw The Joshua Tree growing out of that ear! Try ripping ear hair out in a pinch, versus using clippers, etc. and you’ll experience pain like you only see in the movies. Your eyes tear up, your ears start ringing and you begin to lose consciousness. The only saving grace is that if you do pass out and fall and land on your side, the branches growing out of your ears will likely break your fall. Incredibly, when I rejoined the date-teary eyed and a broken shell of a man-she was still at the table and wanted to keep going. If I was wearing sandals and she saw that toe there’s no doubt she would have been re-activating her Match.com profile at the table as we sat there.


-          To the current generation of younger chicks, pretty much EVERYTHING is “creepy”. It’s one of the most overused words in that demographic, in my opinion, and many times a cop out because they can’t think of anything more accurate or eloquent to say. That being said, if you’re ever called “creepy” by one of these young ladies I can assure you that your scrotum will tear itself off of your body and find the first hole it can climb into in complete shame and retreat. Yes, that hole. Anyway, I think because I look a little young for my age (genetics, excessive masturbation and Dove with ¼ moisturizing Cream) and that I am pretty well versed in modern culture, music, etc., that I have only been called “creepy” in public once. It was someone I saw regularly at a Subway restaurant and there was  bit of a playful relationship but that didn’t dull the pain of hearing her say, “Eww you’re creepy dude” when I commented that I thought a particular younger celebrity was attractive, as part of a larger discussion. Now, had I been 21 or maybe way hotter I am sure that comment doesn’t come, but at just over 40 it apparently warranted the dig. I can only imagine if she had seen my Selena Gomez tramp stamp.


-          There’s a running joke among men that “any more than 3 shakes is playing with yourself” in regards to how many times you shake your little Abare (or huge Abare in certain cases. I think my Middle Aged-ness has caused that to shrink as well, or at least that’s what I have been blaming it on since 1985). Here’s the problem though: As I get older, and for whatever cruel cosmic joke, no matter how many times I shake the damn thing there’s always a little mini river of pee waiting to jet out into my Boxers when I put the Lil guy away. I have heard Howard Stern complain about this endlessly and it’s a real problem. There are few feelings worse than walking around in wet nappies, as I am sure my twin nephews can attest to when they’re with me and I “forget” to change them. I have had some plumbing issues over the years, yes, but I have had my Prostate Moon-Rivered just recently and it’s doing fine so what the hell is going on here? This shit never happened when I was 17. Of course I was pretty much a walking boner in those days but I’d rather find creative ways to tuck in Little Abare and avoid embarrassment than to have to wring him out like a sponge and still have pissy pants for the whole world to see.


-          I could probably look sexy dressed as a Minion (Hey, wait…I DO!!) in all reality but I was hoping I might live my life without ever having to wear glasses. About a year ago when I looked at my phone and I thought my brother had texted me “Yuma Stood Stop Bob Theodore” and was having a mild stroke, I realized my close up vision was starting to fail ("You should stop by the store", it was in fact). It lasted a long time and I should be pretty happy about it but the fact I have to wear glasses to read, etc., has officially confirmed that the Middle Ages are here to stay. I could hold a kitten a foot from my face and it would look like a fucking Kiwi fruit without those things. I almost ate a rolled up candy wrapper because I thought it was a raisin. I was at the mall and thought my girlfriend snuck up behind me to hug me from behind so I turned around and kissed her…it was an Asian man offering free massages. He still calls me.

Middle age is full of new and exciting adventures, primarily of the bodily variety. On one hand it’s fun to discover some of the changes that come my way and on the other it’s terrifying that tomorrow I might be riding a “Rascal” and sending back soup 5 times because 170 degrees suddenly feels lukewarm. The truth is I really feel like since I hit 40 my life has been pretty good, except for a few bumps that I encountered totally of my own stupidity. I have a great job, an even greater girlfriend and my family all seem to be doing well and living happily. So what if there are a few odd looking skin tags growing in places I don’t even let Hodge visit? Who cares if my neck feels like it’s filled with sand, pebbles and nails some mornings. No worries if a 50 foot sprint feels like I just boxed Tyson in his prime. I have my (relative) good health, I can still get sweet looks from Elderly women in Dunkin Donuts (rarely) and I still have my wit and my charm (just ask me). If I lose my edge in some other areas, so be it. It’s just the dues we pay for living a fun, free, adventurous life I guess…and honestly some days I don’t think of these things as negatives anyway, or think of them at all. Or maybe I do and then I just forget.

Must be my early Alzheimers.

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