Thursday, October 30, 2014

Middle Age: A Love Story

So it's precisely 2:09 am on an early Thursday morning as I start writing this. I have to be up in just over four hours for work, my head feels like there's 17,249 tiny balloons being slowly inflated inside by a microscopic army of Sinus cavity hating clowns and my dog has taken permanent residency in my already warm spot in bed. He's no dummy, that little bastard, as he's learned that sometimes amongst my 19 trips to pee between late evening and morning wake up, I tend to linger on the toilet (yes, I sit to pee a great deal of the time. Oh like you don't) so he seizes these opportunities and slips into my spot in bed, stealing my pre-heated goodness. He fake snores so I won't try to wake and move him, knowing I have a soft spot for disturbing the REM sleep of canines. So here I am on the couch, intermittently blowing my nose, feeling like I have to pee again and listening to a 40 pound, 4 legged asshole snore in dreamy bliss in a toasty blanketed Utopia next to my girlfriend. This entire nightmare scenario I blame on one thing and one thing only: Being "middle aged".

I listened to a bunch of my coworkers tell me yesterday, as I've heard before, "Dude, there's no way you look (almost) 45. No way!", and while I really appreciate that the Oil of Olay, smoke-free, drug-free and easy on the booze lifestyle, coupled with good genes, has helped me retain a slightly boyish look, my inner workings are starting to figure out damn quick that I'm not a youngen' any longer. I never had allergies that bad as a child or teenager or even into my 30s. These days, if I even look out the window I'm stuffed up, sneezing and headachey for a week. Someone at work gets sick and I can wear an Asian Bird Flu mask as I sit in a vat of Purell and I'm still going to get that shit. And it's not going to go away until it violates every cell of my lungs and head for days on end. Again, this wasn't the deal ten years ago.

In years past I have had my moments of being a little overweight, centered mainly in the belly area like most dudes, but a slight modification to the diet and some light exercise and those pounds fell off quicker than Courtney Love from a wagon. Now? I gain LBs when I SAY "donut" and I could carry my car on my back as I climb Mt. Tom and even after sweating like a Triathalete with a gland problem I'll still be the same number on the scale the next day. Plus, as an added bonus I am seeing fat in places I didn't know allowed for such things. I'm pretty sure even my teeth are getting chubby. 

A year ago I was trying to read a message on my phone when I felt a pain in my elbow. I had started to develop a number of new and fun aches all over my pasty and rolly polly body so this was nothing new except that I realized in this instance it was because I had in fact hyper extended my arm in order to get my phone far enough away from my face so I could read it without it looking like it was smeared in fucking Vaseline. My eyes? Seriously? They had always been so good to me and all of a sudden they were shitting the bed, as I was sure was next on my list, literally.

Let's talk about memory for a second...where is it? What kind of cruel cosmic joke is it that in mid sentence, as a still mildly handsome, pudgy yet sorta fit-ish, halfway intelligent man I can forget what the hell I was even talking about? Not just the basic premise but I mean total wipeout. An intricate recounting of a sight witnessed on a nice drive that afternoon and then wham! I'm looking at my girlfriend, a co worker, the bed stealing 4 legged dickhead, whatever, and I got nothing. Sure, it generally comes back to me in a few moments but this is brand new territory for me. I'm used to having a clear and concise mental picture of the boring and pointless garbage that I talk about with my peeps. Now it's sometimes fuzzy...if only I could stretch my arm out with my brain at the end and see THAT more clearly.

I am gassier, harrier, slower, lumpier and lazier than I can recall being in all my life and I am just on the cusp of 45. Yet inside I feel like I am a 14 year old punk that just wants to say "I like your boobies" whenever my girlfriend is talking. OK, so I still actually do say that but it's usually as Im staring at her with glasses on from the toilet in mid wizz. Getting up from that position I then feel, and hear things in my body that just weren't there years ago. In so many ways I am happier, more secure, more grounded and fulfilled than I have ever been but in others I feel like an elderly man with Rickets borrowing a brain sourced from a hybrid of Beavis and Holden Caulfield. It's very confusing, and there's no Users manual, and I couldn't read the fucking thing clearly if there was.

I suppose if the dog hadn't stolen my cozy spot and if I didn't now have to get up in just about 3 hours I wouldnt be so whiney about my Middle Aged-ness, cause honestly life is pretty awesome right now. I am relatively healthy, as is my family, my girlfriend kicks ass, I love my job, I have some wonderful friends and I think by years end, after endless tweaking, I may have an actual novel that could be ready to send to publishers. Yeah, so my feet ache every time I walk from here to the fridge to get a Fage yogurt and I haven't really smelled anything in 2 years due to allergies and constant colds and I have the font on my iPad set so big that they can read this shit from the Space Station, but all in all my being Middle Aged hasn't been that bad at all. In fact, I've been very optimistic about a lot of the things coming up on the horizon, a whole bunch of great stuff to look forward to! And if I remember what they are, you'll be the first to know about them. 



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