Middle Age Lament '23

Middle Age Lament

I turn 40 next month. I’m not old enough to remember where I was when JFK was shot, but I am old enough to recollect where I was when Mister Burns was shot. Decades removed from adolescence, I’ve embraced my mother’s sage, “You get what you get and you don’t get upset.” By 30, I was supposed to own my own home; At 40, I’m happy just to rent my own room in someone else’s.

While I’ll cop to having gone through the last four stages of grief, I steadfastly refused to humor “denial.” Sure, my hairline has ceded several centimeters of scalp to my forehead. When the attrition becomes brazen, I’ll euthanize holdouts with a straight razor. I’ll never crown my skullcap with synthetic pelt. I made peace with aging’s immutability when Britney Spears broke her foot dancing; few events affirm youth’s fleet like the onset of your first love’s osteoporosis.

At 20, I loved music festivals, the bigger, the better. At 40, mimicking a slaughterhouse sow’s last mile strikes me as a fate worse than that of a slaughterhouse sow. Nuts to butts with geeked-up, sweaty strangers? Thanks, but I’d rather wake up in an ice bath with fresh bilateral incisions below my rib cage.

Once a tomcat ever on the prowl, time neutered me. I’ve lost the gift of guiltless prevarication, making dating pointless (What is dating if not selling strangers your Sunday best as your daily duds?). These days, if I’m sweet on a gal I go all in: “Hey, Toots, are you looking to tackle a project?” Two years ago, I skipped my 20-year high school reunion, and not just because I’m still sore about being named “Most Likely To Be Tending Bar at Our 20-Year Reunion.” I figured if Friend-Zone Farrah didn’t fall for fit and in-fashion me, she won’t fall for fat, forever-in-cargo-pants me.

While I know little about aging gracefully, I’m inclined to believe that I’m not. I’ve snored myself awake after dozing off on the toilet. “Low T” is not my rap name, it’s my current condition. Step aside, creatine; fiber is my new PED. Weight gains are a feast; weight goes are a famine. I no longer work out to look good in the buff but, rather, to look like I look good nude while clothed. I’ve tried diets, cleanses, and CrossFit; crystal meth couldn’t bring out my “abs.”

Full disclosure, Friends, I’ve been looking forward to this transition for most of my adult life, at least on a subconscious level. My favorite band is The Beatles, and has been since high school. I’m quadragenarian who reads whodunnits at a septuagenarian level (In millennial terms, I “identify” as elderly). I flatly refuse to bank online because, if a luddite like me can breach my account through a browser, any vitamin D-deficient incel can do the same.

While I shun platitudes like plagues, it's a well-known fact that housewarming gifts await persons of a certain age atop the fabled hill. Sure, my cholesterol count boasts a comma, but so does my 401K. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must research whether a reverse mortgage, whatever one is, is “right" for me. One last thing before you pop those earbuds in, Youngblood: promise me you’ll reread this tome when you turn 40. Mere satire now, it will transmute into a Psalm for your enlightenment-seeking soul and a balm for your frangible body. You’ll be better prepared when Social Security’s keg runs dry years before your prescribed turn at the tap…