4/13/2012 Day 5
Knowing that this vessel of knowledge & wisdom, muscles & athletic prowess, and sexual appeal is one day going to break down is a wicked despicable joke on humanity by God or the natural evolutionary system that made us. As I slide into 50, without extra padding, it has also occurred to me that one day my brain will process information like a retard & make me talk like a retard, and my legs will become weak so I’ll have to use a cane or wheelchair just to get to bathroom where I might need assistance, and I’ll be as sexy and smart as pile of gutted kittens. Retard? Gutted kittens? Grow up or grow old — like me. This is my blog and I’m super pissy about my stupid birthday coming up and you’re just going to have to let me get away with not being politically correct for the next 46 days. You know why? Because I’m old and I’m so close to becoming senile (I can feel it!) and that’s what you’re supposed to do with old seniles: let them spew their antisocial rants and say, “He’s old. Just let him go…”
It’s not that I didn’t know that this body was going to fall apart at some time in the future. Hell, I’m sure I did my best to accelerate the process. There were my teen years when I was one of the “cool kids” smoking in the parking lot. In fact, I was so kewl, I remember sniffing Amyl Nitrate during history class and felt superior to my friends because I could actually field questions from the teacher while I was high instead of giggling uncontrollably or falling into catatonia. And then there was the 80s…and then the 90s. Let’s just say that I can hardly smell or taste anything less zingy than a red jalapeno; and music with an overpowering downbeat or anything resembling a Tic-Tac or a pill invokes psychotropic responses in my brain so I feel like dancing on any chair or a table in front of me.
You know what the worst thing is? Those old men in the gym locker room who are my constant reminders that the expiration date on my fit and flirty body is fast approaching. All I ask and wish for is for those old dudes to wrap a towel around it or wear some clothes!
What happens to old mens bodies is disgusting and it freaks me out that they parade around naked, proudly displaying shriveled asses, downward pointing triangle pecs, and tumble weed sized pubic hair which completely camouflages their phallus and yet never covers their stretched, oversized, falling cowbell testicles. Look, I get it. I’m a guy and strutting around naked is my divine right and natural genetically-implanted gag to make me look stupid, but at some point you have to stop scaring other men.
I used to care that those older, fat-cat, stock broker types laid down 5 towels in the steam room (so no part of their flabby-ass skin would graze a tile) and then left them there for the locker room attendant to pick them up. But as I approach the big five-oh I care less about being green or standing up for the little guy than I do for my own increasingly sensitive mental preservation and disposition.
You can’t wear sunglasses into the locker room. That’s creepy. And you can’t always look up high enough when you are dashing to the showers and you don’t ever want to run into a short 200 pound sweaty or showered hairy troll. But you can put a little toothpaste on your fingers, wash your hands with it and then splash some minty freshness into your eyes. It doesn’t sting that much and your vision will be fuzzy enough so you won’t be able to inadvertently make out any distinct parts of the hazy blobness around you.
And speaking of: What is with that pouchy blobness of above the pubic line on the old guys?! Is that a hernia or are there another set of testicles that stay up in there and, until a certain age, decide to protrude? Ugh. I’m bald and now I’m finding hair on my back, but if I get one of those fatty pouchy pocket blobs above my penis I’m going to kill myself. At the very least I’ll wear a towel around my waist, Steve Urkel-style, when I’m in the locker room.
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