Aging Disgracefully

I am too tired and sluggish to even try my hand at a mid-life crisis. I don't even have the energy to get depressed anymore over my slow metabolism, receding hairline and ever increasing compliment of skin imperfections. Seems every day, I find a new way that my body can betray me. As our city planners are continually concerned about "sprawl," let them get a good look at me from the rear, I'll show'em sprawl

A few years ago, I could get away with holding in my stomach when swimming at the pool. Now I am just happy not to injure children when I jump in. I feel like one of those double-wide trailers traveling on the interstate of life. Maybe it is time for me to get some of those red flags for the safety of others.

Getting a little wider is the least of my problems. My skin is starting to take on the consistency of cooled lava. My wife bought me some of those new Biore' pads recently, that pull the yuck out of your pores. These things are stuck to me like a slice of banana on a linoleum floor. When I do get the thing off, it doesn't look like a porcupine, as in the commercial, it looks like Yellowstone National Park; trees, rock, shrubs. Kids are fighting over this thing for science projects at school.

The external things are hardly the problem either. It's the pains that I am starting to feel. I can just be sitting around, doing nothing, and for no reason, I will get sharp stabbing pains running in my eyes. I'm get sore from opening a mayonnaise jar. I have been playing tennis recently with a couple of guys my age and it is so hard chasing down and bending to pick up errant balls that we have just started opening a new can every time. By the time we finish, the court looks like one of those kid playpens at McDonald's.

I am officially starting to look like my dad used to when he wore shorts: legs as white as cottage cheese and every day that my torso grows larger, my legs grow thinner. Before I am out of my misery, I am going to look like one of those avocado seeds with the toothpick appendages.

The stages of aging in a man could be divided by the waistline support device: 1. Belt 2. Drawstring 3. Elastic 4. Suspenders. And the sad part is, the only way you can ever get back to wearing a belt is from some, prolonged illness. It's like I will be watching from some spiritual realm (hopefully above), and saying, "Boy, I hated leaving this earth, but at least I can get back into that suit I saved from college."

Ok, ok, I am probably overdoing it a little. I am not quite to the Wilfred Brimley stage yet, though trimming my eyebrows has become part of a regular regime. Maybe I can stave off a mid-life crisis until old age, or at least until they take Grecian formula off the market.

Billy Murphy -- 6/12/98