I already have plenty of signs that I’m getting old. Laugh lines cut across my face like tiny ravines. What’s up with that? As it happens, I have laughed a lot in my life. I find many things funny. And my reward is to have my face become a kind of chronological roadmap? Legend: “One saggy inch = five years.”
Then there’s the love handles. Ever since I sailed past the big 3 plus 0, it’s like someone poured too flesh into my legs and it began spilling over my hips. Again, though, is “love handles” the correct term? A loved one is not likely to say: “You appear to be tired. Let me pick you up by your conveniently placed handles and carry you the rest of the way.” Nor is a loved one likely to grab on to them in some sort of throes-of-passion thing; no one dares to put their hands into those undulating pits of quickflesh. That’s a good way to irrevocably lose valuable jewelry.
Then there’s this weekend. During a friend’s birthday celebration that lasted from 11 a.m.-2 a.m., I found a video game that I’m actually good at: virtual boxing. I ducked and swung and defeated my opponent. Three times. Until I got tired. Winded. My shirt soaked with sweat, I suffered a fatal TKO. I was finally beaten. ("You burned 400 calories,” the game told me helpfully, as if the kids who play this thing use it to set aerobic benchmarks for themselves.)
But this wasn’t a real fight. I wasn’t hitting anybody. I was beaten by my own physical exertion. I was beaten by air.
I knew I didn’t have any street cred. But it’s one thing to get beat up by the Bloods or Crips; it’s another to be the losing end of a throwdown by oxygen.
That could lead to the worst hip hop lyrics ever: Don’t be surprisin’ if I start ionizin’/My molecules may be without color and taste/But I’m still all up in your face.
Getting old is just like that boxing video game. No matter how many TKOs you deal out, you know that the game will eventually wear you down. The blows will come fast and hard--taking out a clump of hair here, sticking in some flab there--and eventually your flesh begins to shake itself loose and sag from the unrelenting violence. You can try to reclaim the time that’s being snatched from you--make a party go from 11 a.m. to 2 a.m., drink shots in the afternoon, seek refuge in music and sex. Refuse to ever go to sleep as a way of spinning out the precious moments. But there’s still a final sucker punch waiting with your name on it. There’s no way you can beat the game; the only thing you can do is stay in the ring as long as you can, and put up a decent fight.
Oxygen kicks my ass all of the time. Fucking O2.
when i was about 10 i remember talking with my grandfather. he was the oldest person i knew. and i asked him what it was like (tactful kid), or if it was true that you’re only as old as you feel. he answered, “well, some days i feel as old as i feel, PLUS as old as you feel.” i have days now where i feel at least as old as i thought he felt then. especially because that gets so complicated. hang in there, howard, you’re younger than i am anyway.
(btw, i’m going to have those lyrics in my head all day. way to go, you boxing goose.)
Hey, thanks for the pep talk! What a way to start the week!
Now I’ll ease my creaking knees slowly up from this chair and hobble on back to bed to weep uncontrolably for the rest of the day at my impending mortality.
When I was a boy, my grandmother told me that TV didn’t exist when she was young. I replied, “Wow, granny. You must have been a cave girl!”
In other news, love your love handles, Greg. Many women (and some men, too) find them sexy as hell.
I was thinking about the pros and cons of getting older this weekend. The main con was that I now seem to find a lot of joy in things my mother would find joy in - like cleaning my fridge. I had to look a bit harder for the pros, but they’re there. Like, I can still go out, but now I can afford to get a good pre-bar buzz off champagne, instead of the generic-brand vodka from my formative years…
At least we are not to the point where all we talk about is our ailments and if we pooped yet this week.
Why fight it at all? Life gets better by the years
I take great delight in the aging process. It’s my time, baby! I like the look of horror in the eyes of youth as they realize that my gray hair is indeed growing in a spiral that lands it inside of my ear and I do not care! Crazy long eyebrow...it’s my favorite! here, let me show you a little dance called The Running Man!
i knew i was getting old when i started making noises just standing up or walking down stairs.
Thanks for ripping off the rosy eyelids of complacency and leaving me no protection from the stark, existential angst of reality. Damn.
Better old than dead!
I love a man in boxer briefs.
even if he’s older than 30 years.
Me too, Kathy. Me too. Even though Greg’s post makes absolutely no mention of gentlemen in boxer briefs of any age, I’m glad we’ve found a forum liberal enough for us to commensurate (pretty sure I made that word up) on the subject.
COMMISSERATE. Geez. What’s wrong with me? No, honestly. It’s so hard to make fun of your friends when you’re completely retarded.
grow old along with me/the best is yet to be/for which the first was made.
there is no ‘older’ anyway - there’s only under 2, under 20, and old.
Donovan, In case you didn’t notice, the title of the piece is “boxer shorts.” I had a comment to make. I made it. Thank you very much. Even though Greg failed to discuss underwear in the body of the post, I thought I’d share some useful information. Boxer briefs are better than boxer shorts. As we age, we need all the help we can get.
Kathy: there was some pronoun trouble on my part; I was trying to paint myself as retarded, but it didn’t pan out. On the other hand, I seem to have inadvertently succeeded beyond my wildest dreams.