I'm an Old Man

I’m only 33 years old. It may be hard to believe for those who know me, but at one time many, many, MANY eons ago I prided myself on being an athlete (my brother will now post a long list of how much I actually sucked at said sports – screw you, fuckface!!!!). So it’s a tad shocking to me (can you really be a “tad” shocked? Aren’t you either full-on shocked or not shocked at all? Nobody’s a “tad” dead, are they?) that at 33 I have hit the wall – my body officially feels like it’s the body of a 90 year-old man. Who’s been hit by a bus. Repeatedly.

First came the nose hairs. Over the last few years, once every coupla weeks or so I’d be looking in the mirror and I’d notice a long thin hair hanging outta the cave. I’d yank it out, think nothing of it, and move on. And yes, I know what you’re thinking and YES, that last sentence does perfectly describe my “sex life.” Anyways. This went on for a while, no big deal, and then the other day I’m sitting on my couch watching “Jakers!” and I’m like “what the hell is that fluttering near my nose?” I can actually HEAR something moving around. I go to the bathroom to check it out and fucking hell, it’s like a caterpillar was trying to climb up into my brain. I frantically get rid of these things, but to no avail – they can’t be stopped. The word is out – if you’re a long string of hair and need a place to crash, Xmastime’s nose is the hottest condo on the market. Ugh. Not good.

I also hear myself making those old man noises whenever I get up or sit down. You know those noises – old man goes to sit down and makes those “ooooohboy, eye-I-ooomph” noises. And gets up while saying “ahhhgeez”. Except now I’m that old man, and I actually hear myself doing this. Of course I can barely hear these noises escaping my mouth over the ridiculously loud popping of every bone in my legs. Unreal. You could do your taxes in the time it takes me to get up out of an easy chair, stand erect while my bones groan and snap, twist my back and say “yaaaaboy, ahhhhjeez.”

I’m also cold all the time, which is a new phenomenon. I used to be able to fall asleep in the street in a puddle of freezing water on a winter night, no problem. Wouldn’t even notice. Now I spend about 95% of my day whining “Is the heat on? Really? Are you guys cold? No? Really? And the heats on?” I used to walk around in the January wearing a t-shirt, MAYBE a thin jacket if it was a blizzard. Now I find myself doing the ol tshirt – shirt – sweater – thick heavy coat – thick knit cap routine. And I will bitch the whole time about how cold it is. I’m checking the weather, I’m looking outside, I’m sleeping under three comforters every night. What the fuck. It’s only a matter of time before I turn into everyone’s grandmother, meaning whoever comes to visit me eventually drifts off the sleep cause the thermostat is set to 190 degrees.

Old, old, old. I’m about 2 weeks away from looking up people in the obituaries every day and muttering “…went in his sleep…lucky bastard…” Of course my getting old makes me think of my impending death, and I decided to do a little casket-shopping. I was a bit startled when Google brought me this place: Caskets for Pets. Are you kidding me? I’m not dropping $200 on Floppy’s casket when I nice burlap sack and a shovel will do nicely. Also, looking at this joint leads me to believe that we really don’t understand death at all if we’re spending money on the inside of this thing. Colors, fabrics, pictures, what the fuck? Who is this for? And has anyone ever actually heard another person ever have a request for the inside of their casket? “Well, Grandpa always did say he wanted an ecru-embroidered satin inlay with lavender crepe outlines…” Hey, NOBODY has his funeral more planned out than me (Op, we start rehearsals next week), but I can’t say I give 2 shits about the inside of my casket. Hell, fill the fucker with vegetable oil and fry me up, I don’t care.

"Xmastime always did say he wanted to be served with 2 sides and a pitcher of sweet tea."