Reply to: Getting Old

[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.

[hyperD]

I have to ask, are you speaking from experience?

Some, not all.

[norrahe]

Very kind words all, thank you.

I have to ask, are you speaking from experience?

[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...

[hyperD]

You should write for a living, excellent post.

Very kind words all, thank you.

[shaunbhoy]

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

[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.

[MarillionFan]

I am reliably informed that I am the ideal weight..................just the wrong height.

I like to think that I have simply traded in some of my height coefficient to focus on my width one instead.
Famine-packing if you like. It is how those of us at the top of the evolutionary tree survive you see? That's my story anyway!!

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

[shaunbhoy]

I am reliably informed that I am the ideal weight..................just the wrong height.

I like to think that I have simply traded in some of my height coefficient to focus on my width one instead.
Famine-packing if you like. It is how those of us at the top of the evolutionary tree survive you see? That's my story anyway!!

[suityou01]

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…

It's not often I print out a post. In fact I have never done this. This one is getting printed and framed as a priceless gem.

[MarillionFan]

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…

I went for a haircut the other day and she said 'Do you want your eyebrows trimming, they're quite bushy?'

[hyperD]

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…

[xoggoth]

It gets far harder after 40, you have to really work at it. The normal laws of physics do not seem to apply.

[russell]

I'm in my late 40's and ever since I hit 44-45, I've found it really hard to maintain the levels of fitness that I used to. I cycle maybe 10 miles or so per day during the week but find that whereas that used to be enough to keep myself trim, I've piled on the pounds. I work long hours, leaving home at 05:30 and not getting back until 19:00

Foolish, work less hours.

[EternalOptimist]

I don't ever remember my parents being in this situation but I think I act younger at 48 than my parents did at 40.

Anyone in a similar situation?

yes of course. But the trick is to maximise what you do have, to keep pushing and not to roll over.

If it's purely fitness that you are concerned about, some of the best fell runners up here seem to be about 85, so there's hope for us all