My body has been rebelling lately, protesting the passage of time. I am not pleased.
Now, I’m not an old man or anything, but I have noticed a few signs of aging. Laugh if you want, but believe me when I say to you that you cannot run from the clock. It is looming.
I have compiled for you a partial list of my body mutinies. Be afraid.
· After a haircut, I look down at the fresh hair clippings and then up to the hairdresser and then to the mirror and then back to the clippings. Where in the hell did that much gray hair come from? What in the hell has this butcher done to me? Did she drug me, color my hair gray, cut it, recolor it and then revive me to see the aftermath? Yes, that must be it. You devious bitch.
· When I hoist my fat ass to a sitting position at the edge of the bed every morning, I ready myself for the inevitable. As I push up to stand, I hear a fireworks display of cracking and popping that rivals the Fourth of July on the Mall in D.C. I picture it as the abrupt screaming of my joints and tendons, telling me to sit the fuck back down. When the show has ended, I always let out a little moan of satisfaction. I’m guessing that I will spend about five glorious hours a day with this ritual when I’m 65.
· After the joint and tendon fireworks display, there is around ten to fifteen minutes of farting. Oh, I’m charming. Why is it that as the body gets older, it produces more gas? I have to stay overweight just to keep from floating away, for Christ’s sake.
· There is no flowery way to say this: I have a wiry, eight inch long hair sticking out of my nipple area. It’s quite peculiar. I have very little chest hair, and it is primarily concentrated down the middle of my chest, between the ol’ jugs. I like to refer to it as The Tuft. It’s the cutest damn thing you ever saw. But then there is this gaggle of rebellious hairs that has gathered around each nipple, obviously looking to stage a coup. The long one is their leader. I would pull it, but I have the feeling that if I did, it would be like a magician pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. It would just keep coming and coming…
· Not only can you no longer bounce a quarter off of my ass, but if you try, it’ll swallow the quarter up and spit back a dime.
· Every now and then, I hold my hand out in front of me to see if I have the shakes. Sometimes, I do. I’m sure I don’t need to see a doctor, though.
· My muscle spasms are no longer related to the twinge of a vigorous, satisfying workout. No, now the spasms seem to be more of a last, desperate surrender. Sometimes I punch them to put them out of their misery.
· In college, I used to get Party Scars. These were mysterious bumps and bruises that one would encounter after a particularly wild night. I get scars and bruises that are unexplained now, too. But I get them while napping.
· I cup my hand around my ear to hear people at parties. Pretty soon, I’m gonna just say fuck it and get one of those big cornucopia looking thingies.
· Penis still works. Sometimes just not after 10:00.
Of course, some of you old coots can barely remember having experienced some of the items on my list. Your feeble little mind is nearly gone now, yes? That’s just sad. Oop, you have a little spittle on your chin there. Aren’t you just adorable?
Jesus, I hope I don’t end up like you.
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