Getting Old

[russell]

It is quite odd how your body changes during the decades.

One minute you're quaffing flagons of ale and forcing stacks of big macs down your gullet like a demented fois gras duckling while proudly displaying your six pack at any ditzy girl foolish enough to wander within your miniscule gravitational field, when suddenly one millisecond after your thirtieth birthday, you wake up to find someone has implanted a large medicine ball inside your stomach.

And it won't go away. It keeps gestating.

You can have hot curries, hot baths, plenty of ladies and gentlemen to expel the unwanted growth, but the avaricious bastard keeps growing. So then you are reluctantly forced to eat grass until your end of days.

Then as you turn 40 you find that all your hair has had a committee meeting overnight and unanimously decides that eumelanin and pheomelanin are so, like, last year and your pubic hair decides now is the right time to conquer the nose, ears and eyebrows and doggedly sets up an expanding DMZ on your forehead.

Haemorrhoids make a surprise comeback tour when you decide that it’s about time you dice with death and take a bike to work on busy roads that make the Operation Neptune look like a walk down by the promenade.

The simple pleasure of laissez-faire farting now becomes a fully planned military operation utilising an array of fresh underwear, towels, close proximity to a changing area, a full risk assessment and absolutely Verboten on a week day while wearing Savile Row’s finest.

And erections? Where did they bugger off to? One minute you’re saluting the flag at the mere glimpse of some flesh or skirt, the next minute you’re desperately prodding your toes with a fork because you think you might have snapped your spinal cord above the C7 vertebra because there’s been no sensation or activity for the last 48 hours.

And if you think that’s all, Mr Prostate wants a slice of the decay and decides that engorging various proteins in the body and swelling to the size of a watermelon is the smart thing to do, you stand humiliated in a public urinal with your chap in your hand, busily explaining to wild-eyed strangers that are slowly edging away from you, that you’ve never had a problem urinating before…

You should write for a living, excellent post.

[shaunbhoy]

You're like a midget Jabba the Hut but without the personality. What's not to love?

[hyperD]

You should write for a living, excellent post.

Very kind words all, thank you.

[AtW]

You're like a midget Jabba the Hut but without the personality. What's not to love?

You should have claimed your 5 Han Solo clones...

[norrahe]

Very kind words all, thank you.

I have to ask, are you speaking from experience?

[hyperD]

I have to ask, are you speaking from experience?

Some, not all.

[OwlHoot]

It is quite odd how your body changes during the decades.

One minute you're quaffing flagons of ale and forcing stacks of big macs down your gullet like a demented fois gras duckling while proudly displaying your six pack at any ditzy girl foolish enough to wander within your miniscule gravitational field, when suddenly one millisecond after your thirtieth birthday, you wake up to find someone has implanted a large medicine ball inside your stomach.

And it won't go away. It keeps gestating.

You can have hot curries, hot baths, plenty of ladies and gentlemen to expel the unwanted growth, but the avaricious bastard keeps growing. So then you are reluctantly forced to eat grass until your end of days.

Then as you turn 40 you find that all your hair has had a committee meeting overnight and unanimously decides that eumelanin and pheomelanin are so, like, last year and your pubic hair decides now is the right time to conquer the nose, ears and eyebrows and doggedly sets up an expanding DMZ on your forehead.

Haemorrhoids make a surprise comeback tour when you decide that it’s about time you dice with death and take a bike to work on busy roads that make the Operation Neptune look like a walk down by the promenade.

The simple pleasure of laissez-faire farting now becomes a fully planned military operation utilising an array of fresh underwear, towels, close proximity to a changing area, a full risk assessment and absolutely Verboten on a week day while wearing Savile Row’s finest.

And erections? Where did they bugger off to? One minute you’re saluting the flag at the mere glimpse of some flesh or skirt, the next minute you’re desperately prodding your toes with a fork because you think you might have snapped your spinal cord above the C7 vertebra because there’s been no sensation or activity for the last 48 hours.

And if you think that’s all, Mr Prostate wants a slice of the decay and decides that engorging various proteins in the body and swelling to the size of a watermelon is the smart thing to do, you stand humiliated in a public urinal with your chap in your hand, busily explaining to wild-eyed strangers that are slowly edging away from you, that you’ve never had a problem urinating before…

Touch wood, I've had none of that except the medicine ball.