Once upon a time, there was a young, virile lad. He had flowing locks of long, brown hair and a body sculpted from countless hours in the gym.
Many a day would be spent sleeping until noon. Arising fresh and energetic, the remainder of the day found him preening in the mirror, trying to get that just-right look so he could party the night away.
Fast-forward 35 years.
The once young, virile lad has gone the way of the albatross and, sadly, he also now looks like one.
The young lad has been replaced by a much older one, and he sure does look it. In fact, if you squint your eyes really tightly and blur them a whole lot, you can see a little bit of that youngster, although this guy is somehow shorter.
The large mop of hair, once sporting an epic mullet, has been replaced by a whole lot of visible scalp. There is now a bald spot so large that several companies have asked him about renting advertising space.
How about sleeping until noon? Fresh and energetic. Those characteristics went away with the birth of his first child over two decades ago. Now, if he wakes up at any time later than 8 AM, he searches his nightstand for his own copy of Handbook for the Recently Deceased just to see if he’s dead.
This sad soul is me.
Now in my lower 50s as I write this, I am a shell of the man I once was. In my glory days, I used to spend two hours a day, six days a week in the gym. Now, the most pain-free way for me to put on socks is to throw them at my feet and hope for the best.
Time has not been kind. I can no longer fall asleep at any time. Falling asleep now requires a prescription from my doctor or anything that has “PM” on the label or something mixed with vodka. Sometimes, it is all three.
Waking up means starting my day. Starting my long day. Starting my long day at my boring job, a boring job that somehow makes the day seem even longer.
Making this worse is that I can no longer sleep past 6 AM. Some of this is a side-effect of aging and my body not wanting to be in a prone position where my lumbar feels like it is being twisted by a giant pair of pliers. The rest of it is realizing that waking up any time after 6 AM means that the day is half gone.
My God. I am Father Time in Target-brand stretchy waistband jeans.
Aging has meant learning a plethora of other things for me, like:
- I now see the value of Velcro laces on shoes.
- I never understood why my wife grabbed her boobs while descending the stairs until my own set appeared.
- Standing up counts as cardio.
- Sitting down also counts as cardio.
- Getting out of bed involves first rolling over onto your stomach so as not to put undue pressure on the previously-mentioned twisted lumbar.
- Sneezing hurts.
- You can pull a hamstring by blowing your nose.
- Sexual organs are now just for show. That is unless you purchase pills that are not covered by your health insurance plan and are also apparently made of unobtanium so-
- Sexual organs are now just for show.
- It’s hard to remember if you’ve already said or done something.
- Sexual orgaWAIT
I really hate being older. People say “With age comes wisdom,” but I think the only wisdom I’ve gained is that aging really sucks. My wife, for instance, bought me tweezers specifically for my ear hairs. I can guarantee you that the young, virile lad, mentioned previously, did not have to do this.
My Black Friday Special email coupons are all for skin-tag removal products.
Up until I was 40, I had no idea what a skin tag even was. I thought it was some sort of game that Hannibal Lecter played.
Hannibal: TAG!
Other kid: Oh, gross, Han, what did you just tag me with?!
Instead of Tinder, I get emails asking to join Silver Singles, Grey Gonads, or Death Mates. Not that I would join one, as I am happily married, but it is nice to know that if I’m ever single again, there is someone out there who is in just as much pain as I am and is okay with just sitting around, looking at my sexual flaccidity and maybe rubbing ointment on me while I throw socks at my feet and say, “Ow.”
The worst thing about getting older, though, is the distancing from my kids. I have four kids, the oldest two in college (which also explains my ever-expanding bald spot).
I have come to realize that I don’t get what they are telling me sometimes. My son will explain something to me that he’s doing or a joke he heard, and I just don’t understand. I WANT to understand, but I just don’t. Luckily for me, my wife also doesn’t get any of our kids’ references so we just glance at each other, shrug our really sore shoulders, and then go back to playing cribbage.
But I’m still here.
I’m watching my kids get older. I’m watching them grow. I am enjoying the show as I sit back and watch them actually become, well, people. They are learning, expanding, and venturing out with all their youth virility, and energy. My kids are evolving before my eyes into the people that they will eventually be, and it is pretty cool to watch.
I guess getting old isn’t all that bad.
Now, if I could just get these socks on.
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Previously Published on medium
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