Aging Gracefully
I recently noticed my contact lens prescription changed, massive headaches being one of the few physical cues that I generally pay attention to. At first I assumed that it was the onset of some sort of brain tumor but, after a few days, I realized these skull thumpers were due to my deteriorating eyesight. To be honest, I wasn’t sure which one I preferred; a brain tumor or poor eyesight that is. Brain tumors are awful of course but wearing bifocals doesn’t appeal all that much to me either. I’m in my mid-forties and the fact is that I’m not getting any better looking so I, for a time, found myself hoping for a brain tumor. After all a post-op scar on my head would lend me a bit of cache whereas a set of bifocals would just make me look old.
Unfortunately the brain tumor theory became a lot less likely as other signs of my failing vision became apparent. I noticed that my wife would hand me a legal agreement or some sort of medical form and, rather than pretending to glance at it and nod my approval, I found that pretending to glance at it and nodding my approval was about all that I could do.
My arms had also somehow become much shorter than I remembered them being and, no matter how far away I tried to stretch them, I discovered that I couldn’t read anything smaller than the E on an eye chart to save my life. Of course I’m not expecting to find myself in that sort of situation. Most likely at my age “reading something to save my life” would involve taking a prescription at an incorrect dosage. Then again some nut might break into my home and hold me hostage until I read his screenplay which, apparently, I wouldn’t be able to do.
Aging is like that I suppose. It’s a series of unpleasant discoveries that you try to ignore as best as you can until, inevitably, some unhinged jackass breaks into your house, ties you up to a chair, and forces you to read a screenplay that you can’t because you need bifocals.
Felonies and hostages aside, getting older is a lot like going through a second burst of puberty as your body’s last attempt at a sick joke. Hair sprouts from unexpected places. Acne, for some Godforsaken reason, becomes a problem and you once again become completely preoccupied with the function of your genitals. The only difference is that actual puberty is over after a few years whereas this other version lasts forever or, at least, until the day you die.
At some point in my early forties I realized that I’d passed my physical prime somewhere in my mid-twenties. On that day, whenever it was, I felt and looked as good as I was ever going to look and feel. The sad part is that I didn’t even know it had happened. It might have been nice to have a service to commemorate the event with a second line of jazz musicians or something like that. After a while we’d stop at some hole-in-the-wall bar, I’d take a few shots of cheap gin, cut into a cake that was baked into the shape of a prostate glan,d and then hold court for a few hours as I was gifted with various ointments to relieve the pain in my joints and muscles. At the end of the evening my friends, lined on either side, would throw Viagra instead of rice as I walked out the door.
That, however, is all hindsight at least it would be if I could see further than twenty feet. I suppose I could try to stave off the inevitable effects of aging by exercising regularly but aerobic activity isn’t all that conducive to my lifestyle. I tend to be a product of inertia and, more often than not, I’m an object at rest. I only enjoy exercise when it’s for some sort of tangible goal like running from someone who wants me to read a screenplay or sprinting to pick up a curbside order from my favorite brewery.
The exercise wardrobe is also pretty daunting. Everything seems to be so tight and form-fitting which is probably the reason why the people who wear them work out so much to begin with. It takes a certain kind of person to be willing to put on clothes that show every fold and unsightly bulge in their figure and I just don’t think that I’m that kind of person. I don’t know much, but I’m fairly certain that not everyone wants to see me in pants that are so tight they can see the pulse of my dick. I suppose I’m just considerate that way.
Serial exercisers also appear to be an exhaustingly happy and outgoing bunch which is great and all aside from the fact that they’re exhaustingly happy and outgoing. They seem have a joie de vivre that is, frankly, a bit terrifying. Anyone who can talk about a particular tread on running shoes with any level of enthusiasm is, at best, someone who’s probably a bit challenged when it comes to making conversation. At worst they probably have a bunch of frozen human feet in their freezer.
And that’s my point. Why would I want to hang out with anyone who has a taste for human flesh in order to do something that I find inherently unpleasant to begin with? All of this exercise nonsense is really just an attempt to put off the ravages of ageing for a bit. The end comes for everyone regardless of how many crunches you can knock out in a minute. Of course people who exercise might live a longer life but, to be honest, I’m not sure if the tradeoff is worth it.
About the Author
derekbremer Prior to his life as a stay at home father Derek spent more than a decade performing public relations and marketing functions for financial consulting firms and found the job to be precisely as exciting as it sounds. When not tending to his wife or daughter Derek enjoys subjecting the public to his unique take on fatherhood, travel and animal husbandry. He has been published in Scary Mommy, Sammiches and Psych Meds, The Good Men Project, HowToBeADad, Red Tricycle, RAZED, HPP and the Anthology "It's Really Ten Months Special Delivery: A Collection of Stories from Girth to Birth.
