I turned 48 last week.
Not a big deal as far as milestone birthdays go - unless I live to 96 - then I’ll
regret not asking for some balloons.
Until recently, I
didn’t give much thought about getting old. It just kind of crept up on me -
like shrunken underwear. I certainly don’t feel old. Sure, my first few steps
out of bed in the morning sound like I’m stepping on bubble wrap, but I can still
carry my weight in firewood. I certainly don’t act old. This week I farted in the car and locked the
windows so the boys couldn’t put them down. I don’t look old. I may have a few
strands of fishing line showing up in my in my haircut, but I still get carded
when I buy beer at Walmart. At what age are people supposed to face the
prospect of aging?
I didn’t consider it 40
years ago, when on my golden birthday, I created a haunted house in the musty
underground garage of the lakeside bungalow my family rented. Scary monster artwork
drawn with Crayons onto cardboard boxes and a hairy werewolf crudely-fashioned
from paper grocery bags, clung precariously to the dank stone walls.
Occasionally, I’m reminded of those creepy images when I look in the mirror, shirtless,
and realize it’s time to shave my back.
Nobody came through
my haunted house. I should’ve advertised it more, but my seven-year-old marketing
budget only afforded only a sheet of notebook paper skewered with a stick
pounded into the grass at the end of the driveway. An elderly couple, out for a
stroll stopped, stooped and squinted at my sign. They stood up, looked at me animatedly
motioning toward the open garage door like a pre-pubescent carny barker, and walked
nervously away.
Thirty
years ago my thoughts were focused on lifting weights. As freshmen footballers,
my buddy and I pumped iron as often as we could. We’d do dips and squats in
front of the mirror and immediately admire our physiques, searching for any
signs of growth. A year earlier, after embarrassingly setting the middle school
record for the speed and frequency in which I got pinned, my eighth grade wrestling coach pulled me aside and suggested I “build-up those
toothpicks you have hanging from your shoulders.” I should’ve reminded him that
though delicate and small, toothpicks can be dangerous weapons. They’re sharp
enough to break the skin – or at least leave a pretty bad sliver.
My workout regimen in
the school weight room actually caused me to bulk up a little. Too bad putting
on weight and muscle didn’t increase my football ability. Because of my lack of
football skill I was mostly forced to play guard and tackle. I guarded the
water jug and tackled anyone who tried to take my spot on the bench. Working
out kept me in peak physical condition for high school sports. I haven’t played
football since my senior year, but I remain in reasonable shape. (If an inverted
lollipop with size 11 shoes qualifies as a shape?)
Twenty
years ago I was into competitive running. It began when I took a college
fitness class and all we did for our “workouts” was run laps around the gym. I
was in such poor aerobic condition that the campus nerd
continually beat me. To be truthful, I shouldn’t refer to my physical activity as
“running.” The term implies moving at a rapid pace. The only thing moving
rapidly was my desire to quit. I was
never competitive as a runner. I only entered local races for the commemorative
t-shirts that made me look like I knew what I was doing. Beside the t-shirts, my closet was full of
Spandex running shorts and tights. Hoping to be like other college students
trying to display their individuality in college, I wore tights as part of my
daily wardrobe – even with flannel shirts. It seemed cool then, but now I’m
thankful there’s no blackmailable photos of a pimple-faced lumberjack in yoga
pants.
A
decade ago I went headlong into the chopper motorcycle craze. I watched all the
biker build-off shows on television - and I even built my own custom bike. The
stars of the TV shows were muscular, tattooed, and had hipster hairstyles. Since
I had no muscles or tattoos I grew my hair out to shoulder length and slicked
it back with enough Brylcreem to leave grease stains on my pillow. When I got
my bike on the road it was a real head-turner. When I got my greasy-haired, Abe
Lincoln-looking noggin on the road I was a real stomach-turner.
These
days, as I approach 50, I’m content to sip cheap beer, and expensive whiskey,
and shake my head at how other people look, and act, and dress. Occasionally,
when a student tries to be tough in class, I share with him my belief that I can
beat up all but two (and neither of those are students) of the 500+ students
and staff in the building. I probably can’t, but my youthful ego tells me
otherwise. If, in 2062, you see a nursing home resident with a mullet, earrings,
sideburns, parachute pants, and an Ozzy concert shirt trying to beat people up – tell him
to act his age.
