The Wonders of age 44

I’ve started a fun little game with myself.

After the alarm goes off each morning and my wife follows that up with the sweetest nudge, I do my best to not make one sound as I rise from the bed.

My scorecard indicates that I am 2 for 35 to date.

I’ve only managed twice in the last five weeks to not make an audible sound after rolling out of the bed in the morning.

It is virtually impossible and I swear to you, the moaning and groaning only started after I entered into my 44th year on this planet.

Age 43, young and spry.

Age 44, welcome to the slow onset of deterioration.

As age 45 approaches, I can only hope that it will be the year aging slows down some, both physically and mentally. A respite would be nice.

Because 44 was a memorable one, and not always in a good way.

Allow me to share some of the experiences with you:

The drip down the leg.

Some quick background, I pee sitting down. It all started when the kids were little. Sitting down allows you to take care of business stealthily. No sounds that could potentially wake up the infants.

Even though they are now older, I still sit down. It’s comfortable and cleaner. I get dizzy standing too long.

But that’s not my point. This is:

I could shake the dew off of the lily for 45 minutes and still, that one mysteriously remaining drip finds its way down my leg.

And it drives me mad.

I pursue eradication of said drip with an irrational fervor. Thank the high heavens that no family member has had to bear witness to my shenanigans.

Pants quickly dropped to the ankles, wads of tissues secured and mania until the source of the discomfort has been removed.

Depends can’t be too far away.

I ask my wife to check the “trifecta of unwanted hairs” on a weekly basis.

It wasn’t so bad when I would have my wife shave the back of my neck every week. Neck hair is difficult to identify on one’s own and I appreciate her willingness to shave it off when it becomes unruly. She even knows to avoid that one mole. God I love her.

But within the past six months, we’ve moved on to ear hair as well. She doesn’t have to say anything. I know the look. I can read the eyes. I refuse to see what she is seeing; no mirror required. I just hand her the mini clippers and let her chop away.

Sexy.

And we can’t forget the nose hairs. While I can easily check the status of these follicles myself, I’ve taken to walking up to my wife, pushing the tip of my nose upwards and asking her to assess the damage.

She has the better angle. Since I’m tall, she better represents what the majority of people will see as they encounter my nose.

All she has to say is “yes” and I know I need to reserve 5 minutes of nose time the following morning before leaving the house.

Love.

My obsession with loss of muscle mass

As a rule, muscle mass declines with age, starting in the 40’s and picking up speed after about age 50.

I wish I never read this quote. It haunts me daily since I read it a few months back.

While I participate in strength training a few days per week, I’m convinced that I am incapable of slowing down the muscle loss. I workout for the pump because without the pump, it feels like the muscle is falling off of the bone day and night.

I do push-ups against the refrigerator.

I curl the ketchup bottle.

I do extra squats while searching for paprika in the Lazy Susan.

I walk in lunges when getting the mail.

Free time equals “save the muscle” time.

The constant judgment of younger folk

I held off for a really long time.

I’m not that “millennial this, millennial that” guy.

But I’ve succumbed to been there, done that.

Aw, look at that driven individual, he is running into the office. How silly.

He’s eating Fritos and a Coke? Enjoy it while you can youngster.

Are you kidding with this Facebook display of affection? Stop it. I give it a month more at most.

Is that what we call music now? Is that Drake or Chance the Rapper? It’s not P Diddy, right?

Trust me, that tight pants fad will end soon.

No longer can wear a hat backwards

I probably should have stopped at age 40 but I’m glad I caught my mistake now. I can’t believe I went out in public like that. I would have thought the kids would have said something. Oh well.

I’m leaning towards no hat at all anymore. I think that makes the most sense. It’s the mature thing to do.

Grown men with a backwards hat, no.

Horrific fear of losing my memory

This one is the scariest by far.

There is a history of Alzheimer’s and dementia in my family. It scares the living shit out of me. If I can’t remember who played 3rd base for the Twins in 1982, I’m ready to commit myself.

I mix up the kids’ name on a regular basis.

I cannot recall Emma Stone’s name when it comes up in conversation.

I draw blanks hourly.

I do the best I can to push the term “early onset” out of my brain as quickly as possible. To combat this fear, I play word games day and night. I read somewhere that this helps fight off dementia. I might be the world leader in anagrams by now.

I relive my day hour by hour to make sure the short term memory is still intact.

I openly ask people to be honest and tell me if I’m repeating myself.

Panic mode has set in.

Watching The Eagles documentary multiple times

This one is all about nostalgia. I’m obsessed with nostalgia. Nostalgia makes me cry. I’m nostalgic about my kids getting old before they are actually, you know, old.

The documentary on the band The Eagles, “History of the Eagles”, is incredible. It stretches from the 60’s through current day. The bulk of it takes place in the 70’s and 80’s, my era of growing up.

When I watch it, I feel like I’m reliving my childhood, when my Dad would have The Eagles playing at all times. Or when he would sing “Seven Bridges Road” off tune with his big ass headphones on his head.

I get lost in the documentary and so badly want to climb into the TV.

I have seriously watched this 10–15 times over the past year or so.

It takes me back.

I want to go back.

11 reasons why life in the 70’s and 80’s was better than today.
Breaking it down for my spoiled children and letting them know what they missed out on.bullshit.ist

I’m afraid to go forward.

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Originally published on Medium/Bullshitist.