A 40-Year Old Body

Few people dreaded their 40^th birthday as much as I did.  I was concerned that 40 would make me sound old.  I was concerned that somehow I was going to go to bed as a youthful looking 39-year old, and wake up the next day looking like an aging 40-year old (truth be told. . . . I wasn’t that youthful looking to start with . . . but still I was really worried about suddenly looking much older).  And I was concerned that my kids would start seeing me as some old dude . . . again, truth be told they already considered me to be an old dude.  I feared my 40^th birthday.

However, despite all of these concerns, the one thing I didn’t worry about was having my body turn against me.  I never gave that a thought.  Now, I knew my metabolism had slowed down, and I knew it was much easier for me to gain fat than gain muscle, and I knew my hair was receding a bit, but that had nothing to do with turning 40 . . . hell that had a lot more to do with turning 30!!  So though turning 40 worried me for all sorts of different reasons, my body shutting down was not on the list of things to worry about.

However as I now close in on my 41^st birthday, and look back on the year that was, I realize that my year as a 40-year old was all about my on-going fight with my own body.

For 39 years I went without a broken bone.  Well that’s not entirely true as I did break my collarbone when I was six trying to prove that my Superman costume would make me fly (jumped down the stairs, and broke my collarbone).  But that’s it, and that was 34 years ago.  So for 34 years, pretty much injury free.  Until this year.  A stress fracture in my right foot.  Granted not a clean break, but a fracture nonetheless, and due to . . . overuse . . . which means my everyday walking around and playing a little paddle caused a fracture in my foot.  Literally my body now breaks from just walking the dog around the block.  I spent 45 minutes in an MRI machine, and was outfitted with a stiff walking boot.

Though no one is going to tell you that I have perfect teeth (should have worn that lower retainer more than I did way back when) for the most part I’ve had nothing but a few cavities, the last of which probably came back in junior high. Until December, when I had a root canal.  It got so bad in the weeks leading up to the procedure that I was having horrible migraine-like headaches.  The dentist who performed the procedure said all four of the roots were infected.  He had to drill me with four different shots of Novocain, including one in the roof of my mouth.  I was drooling for two days.

I’ve never been particularly flexible, but when I hit 40, what little flexibility I had disappeared.  I now walk around the house asking the boys to scratch my back to get at the places I can’t reach.  And if they’re not home I’ll rub up against the wall to reach those areas.  I’m like a house cat rubbing up against the walls.  Well, a house cat with no flexibility.

And then there’s Little Clay.  He has turned on me more than any other body part.  I hit 40, and my dick pretty much decided to defect from the rest of my body.  There’s been an annexation in my crotch region.  From about the age of 17-30, Little Clay was ready and willing to go WHENEVER I needed him.  We were a two-man team on the same search and destroy mission.  We were best friends.  As I made my way through my mid and late 30’s Little Clay and I agreed upon a mutual slow down.  Now that’s not to say that we weren’t ready when called upon, we just accepted the fact that we weren’t going to be called upon as much as the wife was coming up with new excuses at an astonishing rate as to why she didn’t want Little Clay, and because the damn lock on our bedroom door doesn’t work . . . which has twice led to a very embarrassing encounter with our kids (spend six-figures on a home addition/renovation and get a new bedroom door that doesn’t lock, where’s the justice in that??).

But as I hit 40 something happened, Little Clay decided he had enough of being The Wing Man.  He was tired of being Goose, and instead he wanted to be Maverick.  And that’s not okay.  Only one dude can fly the plane.  Someone has to sit in the co-pilot’s seat, and take orders.  But I hit 40, and Little Clay decided to pull the ejector seat.  He’s become a one-man army, and he’s on HIS OWN MISSION on HIS OWN TIME!

For the first time ever he seems to be ready, when I’m not.  He’s ready at two in the afternoon when I’m walking the dog around the block.  And he’s ready when I’m sitting in my favorite breakfast spot reading the sports page and eating a bagel.  And he was ready two weeks ago when I came to my son’s elementary school to pick him up from the nurse who had called me to tell me my son was running a fever.  I had to sit in the school parking lot for 10 minutes just to get him under control.

And then there’s the times when I actually NEED HIM to be ready . . . and he’s not!!  Just a few weeks ago my wife gave me the sign that she was ready (which is her asking, “do you want to have sex?”- we’ve agreed to dummy-proof this as I’ve missed way too many less obvious signs over the years), and Little Clay was NOT in the mood.  I had to take him into the bathroom to have a little man-to-man with him.  “Damnit you’re better than this.  Don’t do this to me.  Man up here you son-of-a-bitch!  Don’t make me take that blue pill again.  That’s for old people.  The last time I took that I almost had to drive myself to the hospital because you wouldn’t go down.  Now come on!  She’s naked in there.  And she’s awake!  This won’t last.  Hell, she could be asleep already.  Come on!  You ever want to see porn again you better rise to the occasion.”

He did, but not for long.

I finally understand the commercials about being ready…but I’m not ready for that yet.  So I’ve decided that my 40-year-old body just needs to be handled differently.  I need to make sure I have good supportive shoes (according to Dr. Russo, who by the way is really cute); I need to brush and floss more and go to my six-month dental appointments; I probably need to stretch before playing paddle or any physical activity and maybe get a massage every so often; I know I need to eat more fruit and vegetables (but I probably won’t); and finally, I need to take advantage of the times Little Clay is ready.  Hopefully, my wife is home. Oh yeah, and fix the lock on the bedroom door.

The High School Reunion

I recently had my 20 year high school reunion. 

Wow.

The class of ’89.

All grown up.  Well some of us have grown up.  Some of us have just gotten larger while others have just gotten balder and others yet, like me, haven’t really grown up much, we just look older. 

Now I still live in the same suburb where I grew up.  My old high school is literally two miles from my front door.  Hell, I live closer to the high school now than I did when I actually went to high school.  And many of my classmates also live in the area, so I do run into a number of them from time to time.  To suggest that I haven’t stayed in touch with some of my classmates would be inaccurate.   I married one of my classmates, so trust me I still have ties to my old high school.  But no question it’s been years (well 10 to be exact, as most of us went to the 10-year reunion) since I’ve seen many of my old pals. 

Inevitably everyone looks a little older and you can tell “life” has worn a few people down.  The reunion did confirm my suspicion that women age better than men.  Feel free to argue this, and I’m sure everyone can cite a few examples to the contrary, but trust me on this, ON AVERAGE women age better than men.  My wife is a prime example of this.  She’s gotten better looking since we first met as 17-year olds in high school.  And I’m not just saying that because she’s my wife and in about 10 minutes she’s going to read this, it’s just fact.  She’s gotten better looking while I’ve gotten funnier looking.  I have less hair on my head and more on my back since my high school days.  The six-pack I had in high school (brought on by swimming 4,000 yards a day for four straight years) has been replaced by a nice round mid section.  And I now trim my nose hairs as much as I trim my facial hairs.  Many of my classmates appear to be suffering from the same fate as me. . . . and then some.  Boy, the last 20 years has NOT been kind to a number of my old pals, but hey, that’s life.  Overall, everyone seemed to be doing great.

It was a fun night and I truly enjoyed catching up with everyone including my old girlfriend who I haven’t seen in 20 years.  The goof missed our 10-year high school reunion when she flew into town and screwed up the actual night (the 10-year reunion was on a Friday night and she thought it was Saturday).  My classmates appear to be enjoying themselves and really happy to catch up, but pretty much to a man they all seemed THRILLED not to be in high school anymore.

And that was the saddest part of the night.  It wasn’t the fact that I’m a whole lot uglier than I used to be, and it wasn’t because a number of my classmates appear to be more successful career-wise than me.  What hit me the hardest was that all these people that I had spent four straight years with were thrilled not to be spending time together anymore.

I loved high school.  I wasn’t the most popular guy and I certainly wasn’t the best athlete and God knows I wasn’t the best student, but I had a solid group of friends, dated a couple of great girls (married one of them) and overall I loved the “family” that was the 500+ people  that were in my class.

After all we did everything together.  Whether we realized it or not.  We spent five days a week from 7:45 AM to 2:45 PM together.  We were on teams together.  We competed together.  We dated one another (sure there were a few people who dated people from other schools, but typically we dated from “within”).   We went to dances together, we hung out at one another’s houses, and we ate together.  We made mistakes together.  We occasionally got into fights with one another.  And we were all there for the start of the four years and we were all there for the finish of those four years. 

We were one big family.

And then everyone leaves.  You spend that last summer together and then everyone scatters.  And the family is over.  Forever.  And that’s fine.  And that’s simply part of life.  I’m not suggesting that I’d like to be in high school for the rest of my life, but I did enjoy the high school family and at the very least I’d like to think that most of my classmates/family members did as well.  And I guess that’s not the case. 

For most the four years of high school were simply a stepping stone to the next step.  I guess that’s okay.  At the end of the day high school was a stepping stone for me as well.  But I am saddened knowing that the high school family will never be duplicated in anything I do again.  And most people are thrilled with that.