I’m a middle-aged man who’s quickly approaching fifty. Well, speed-walking toward it. Ok, ok, trudging slowly yet defiantly toward the peak of Over-the-Hill Mountain. I begin my descent/decline after October 11th.
*Le Sigh.
Still, I wasn’t prepared to see what I saw last night. Part of my nightly beauty regimen before bedtime left me mildly disturbed, even more so than usual. After taking care to brush my teeth, gargle some mouthwash, and brush out the silvery tresses of my lovely, wavy hair, I discovered a startling new development:
A gray nose hair. SON-OF-A-BITCH!
I found this while applying one of those nasal trip thingamabobbers to my schnozz. At age 49, I still enjoy sleeping in the same bed as my Bride, though our little dog Mooch likes to create a canine barrier between me and the Missus. It’s a good thing we didn’t have her before our children. She would have been the ultimate form of birth control and the sole heir of our entire fortune once we passed on.
What a month of a half of the good life THAT would have been for her.
Since I enjoy sleeping in our king bed more than the family room couch or my pickup truck, I agreed years ago to wear these goddamn nasal strips. The idea being that the more open my nasal passages are, the less likely my Bride will think that there’s a helicopter landing on our roof in the middle of the night. She often dreams that she’s working in a mill as a buzz saw operator.
So as I’m applying the nightly airway clearer in the mirror, I see the offending culprit: A stiff, long, gray nose hair. Holy nostril weed, Batman! I didn’t know these things came in Elder Gray, at least at the age of 49.
This honestly shouldn’t have come as any surprise. I was cursed with my first gray hair at age 17. I remember that dogshit morning well, seeing it in the mirror while getting ready for school. I was shocked and didn’t know what to do. I hadn’t had “The Talk” with my father yet. Though he had plenty of gray hair himself and could have dispensed some solid Father/Son advice on the topic, I was too embarrassed and ashamed to go to him for insight.
I figured I had plenty of my own wisdom coming soon if I was already graying at 17. I plucked it, shoved it into my wallet, and showed everyone at school that day. It gave a whole new meaning to “Senior Year.” My friends cheered me up by giving me a gift basket full of prunes, Metamucil, and a tube of Icy Hot. Cocks.
I should have hit them with my cane. Kids today, amirite?
Fortunately, the one-off gray hair seemed to be an anomaly. That is, until about a decade later, when Mr. Wallet-Dweller riled up his friends and told them that it was time to show this man a lesson. He rode up on a horse with his face painted blue and touted the idea of freedom.
His minions were inspired and motivated to live their best lives. They rose from my scalp and breathed the sweet, lovely air of freedom. Much to the chagrin of the owner of Dome Hill. Monochrome little twats.
As a real estate agent back then, I blamed the morons that other Realtors referred to as “clients.” Have you ever tried to convince a seller that their smoked-in home wasn’t going to sell for top dollar in a below-average market? I have. Or had a severely OCD New Yorker transplant look at five to ten homes for one single, hairline crack in a foundation? And then pass on every home he viewed for five straight days? I experienced that hell, too.
It’s a wonder I didn’t have white hair like Gandalf before I was 30.
Having children didn’t make the aging process any more graceful. Try adding a toddler into the mix. When I wasn’t watching Dora for eight hours straight, I was talking her down off the pool table and explaining why we don’t throw the eight ball onto the hardwood floor. She called me a bitch in Whinese.
People think I lost most of my hearing from three dozen rock concerts without ear protection. Negatori. Sure, that may have been a contributing factor. But never rule out the piercing scream of a three-year-old who feels you’ve personally wronged her by putting vegetables next to her chicky nuggies and mac & cheese.
She told her mother about my criminal behavior and convinced her to divorce me. I became a part-time Dad. She eventually forgave me, but the damage was done. I aged ten fucking years dealing with the fallout of forced balanced nutrition.
As I advanced into my late 30s, I decided that manual labor was the way to go. Carpet cleaning wouldn’t be such a bad idea if I was only doing it part-time, right? My lower back whimpered in a corner, shaking in fear. It was far more realistic and rightfully scared than the man quickly approaching 40 years old.
It was nice earning between $50-$75 an hour. That kind of money came in handy for heating pads, ice packs, chiropractor bills, and acupuncture treatments. I’d like to say I caught on quickly and gave up doing back-breaking work during my middle age, but that would be a lie. Doing over 2000 jobs in a dozen years proved that I was a slow learner and a glutton for punishment.
At least I could say I always worked hard to provide for my family, the unappreciative band of hooligans that they were. I once picked up my daughter on my 45th birthday after a long, difficult job. I pulled up to the curb, sweaty, cranky, and tired. Her little BFF Rian jumped up and pointed directly at my windshield with a lovely birthday greeting:
“OLD!”
All right, Smartass. Extra veggies it is, next time you come over for dinner.
This aging thing ain’t for the faint of heart. You know it’s bad when you have to warm up in the morning before actually getting off the bed, like a ’46 Buick. Snap, Crackle, and Pop are no longer in my cereal bowl but are my constant companions when I get off the couch. Douchebags.
I no longer work out to look good, I do it to keep myself alive. With my cholesterol and triglycerides higher than Snoop Dogg on 4/20, I have to make it to the gym at least five or six days a week. Though I don’t spend 90 minutes lifting weights like I used to, a solid 20 minutes on the treadmill at 4.2 MPH makes me feel like I’m keeping the Grim Reaper at arm’s length. Come any closer and I’ll punch you in your ghostly nuts.
Now if I could just remember where I left my car keys. Oh, and my glasses. Ah yes, those bastards on top of my head, check. I’m gonna get a strap for them and just wear them around my damn neck. No shame in my game as I approach fifty. No pride, either.
© 2024 Jason Provencio. All rights reserved.
Ayyy, young lad 😄! I remember being just a tad older than you, and my friends and I proclaiming that, “It’s all downhill after 50!” Hmmm, I guess that was until we hit 60…Oh, and then 65…Don’t even get me started on the trauma of turning 70⚡️🫨😱I’m not there yet, but I hear it is quite drastic.
Thank you for the enjoyable read this morning ~ love starting my day with such genuine laughter!!😂😂
Hate to kill your buzz, but we have to retire because old age is a full time job. *79 year old carnivore newbie here*