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.

If I Die Young

I’m happy to report that I’ve never truly had my “life flash before my eyes,” nor have I ever felt regret over the things that I never accomplished in life, and may not get the chance to do.

Sure there was that one time about 10 years ago when my brakes pretty much gave out on my crappy Pontiac while I was driving about 60 on the highway.  All of a sudden the car in front of me jammed on the brakes.  Of course I too immediately jumped on my brakes, but my car did not stop.  Instead I hurtled towards the rear bumper of the car in front of me.  I wound up jerking the car onto the shoulder where I came to a complete stop a full two car lengths ahead of the car that was originally in front of me.  It was a scary situation, and had the shoulder not been available to me I would have clearly impaled my car onto his.  As I was pushing the brake pedal to the floor with both feet all I could think about was not having had sex for two weeks.  I was going to die, and I was pissed that it had been two full weeks since I last had sex.  That’s the thought that flashed before my eyes.

And yeah, there was that time I thought I had gotten trapped in the YMCA steam shower with three naked men.  Turns out the door was just stuck, but seriously there was a real feeling of regret on my end.  Granted it was mostly regret that THIS was how I would be found . . . dead with three hairy naked dudes in a small steam shower at the local YMCA . . . . seriously that’s not good . . . but other than that, not a whole lot of regret and not too many instances of my life flashing before my eyes.

Until recently that is.  The headaches started about a month ago.  At first they weren’t too bad, and I chalked them up to stress.  Some extra strength migraine medicine seemed to help, so I didn’t think much of it.  But then the headaches got worse, and the migraine medicine wasn’t helping anymore.  Then the neck pains started.  Then I started realizing that I was uncontrollably grinding my teeth, and as a result my jaw hurt.  I couldn’t stop.  I actually went out and purchased a football mouth guard.  I’d sit around chewing on it like it was some chew toy.  I wound up chewing a hole right through it.  Everything from my neck up hurt.

My worst fears had finally been realized. . . . my life style had finally caught up to me.  The pizza, and the bacon cheeseburges, and the zebra cakes, and the bagel sandwiches had finally done me in.  I was dying.  So I did what any logical person would do . . . I diagnosed myself with an inoperable brain tumor.  I gave myself six months to live (which really is very disappointing since my “Death Clock” had me dying on November 21, 2044 . . . boy they were off by A LOT).  But no time to wallow in self-pity . . . well no more than usual at least. . . . seriously my hairline is receding, I’m 2-5 on the paddle season, and my wife’s recent raise was as much as my ENTIRE yearly salary . . . trust me there’s some self pity going on even without this brain tumor.

But first up was making sure I had a “support group” of good friends who would look in on my wife and kids from time to time to make sure that they would be okay.  I’ve got a fair amount of life insurance so financially I think my wife is fine (hell I’m worth A LOT MORE dead than alive), but I needed to make sure that after her friends stopped bringing over dinners, and after the sympathy cards stopped coming that she would have a small, but dedicated group of friends checking in on her.  And not female friends.  I know my wife has plenty of those, and no doubt they’d all step up to help her, but I needed some guys checking in to make sure that the “manly stuff” was taken care of.  I need someone making sure the disposal is still working, and that the gutters are cleaned, and that the electrical wiring is up to code . . . okay actually none of those things are good examples, as I don’t do any of that stuff now.  I’m not even sure I know where my fuse box is located.  Haven’t seen it in years.  Wouldn’t know what to do with it if I did see it.  But seriously, I need someone throwing balls to my kids so that they can work on their bat speed, and I need someone taking over my fantasy football team.  And I need someone playing Madden 2012 with the boys.  The important stuff.  I need that taken care of when I’m gone.

So I narrowed it down to four good pals (there were originally five, but one of my good buddies is currently growing opium and distilling his own whiskey in his backyard, so I dropped him from the list), and then sent an email to one of them telling him of my plan and of his impending responsibilities.  After a handful of emails from him with the subject line “You’re a Moron,” I got him to agree to this plan.

Next, I needed to figure out how long I wanted my wife to wait before she hooked up with another man.  After seeing the Tom Hanks’ movie Castaway, we agreed that if I were ever lost (in a plane crash, boating accident, Columbian Drug Cartel kidnapping, WHATEVER) she needed to wait a full five years before she could officially sleep with another man.  Hey, it took Hanks four years to get off that island, and he could sail.  I once lost an R/C boat on a lake after I drove it out of range. I had to jump in and swim after it . . . trust me, I need an extra year.  But I wasn’t sure how long she needed to wait after I had died?  Five years seems too long.  She knows I’m dead.  There’s no search and rescue here.  And yet I need some serious mourning.  Two years.  She can start dating in 18 months, but she needs to wait two full years before sleeping with someone.  If I had to wait six months to sleep with her after we started dating, then SO DOES THE NEXT GUY!

And finally, I needed a second opinion.  Maybe it’s not a brain tumor.  Maybe I jumped to a conclusion without thinking of another realistic possibility.  Brain tumor is worst case scenario.  Best case scenario is something like . . . . let’s see. . . . head hurts, mouth is sore, cold liquids sting my teeth, lower neck is tender, last went to the dentist in ’09 . . . I’m going with root canal.  Why not?  After all my body is a finely tuned machine.  It’s a precise instrument.  A weapon.  I know it like I know the back of my hand.  I can tell you when I’m getting sick a week before the first symptoms show up.  Don’t let the receding hair line, and the ever-expanding gut, and the freakishly short arms, and the pathetic flexibility throw you off.  I’m a freaking spider monkey on crack.

Sure enough, after a quick visit to the dentist, I need a root canal.  The dentist assures me that once I’ve gotten it taken care of I’ll “feel a lot better.”  Most people are devastated to hear they need a root canal.  I was ecstatic.  The woman at the front desk looked at me like I was crazy.  But hey, a root canal is a lot better than brain tumor.

Fantastic.  Now I just need to get my right foot checked out.  Because I’ve either got a stress fracture or foot cancer.  My life’s still not flashing before my eyes . . . but it was close there for a second.