I’m a 32 year old that has subsisted off of nearly 29.7 years of junk food, chocolate, and sleep deprivation.  Father Time is ticking off the seconds of his stop watch like a Chinese gong right over my head.  The bad thing is that I still look like I’m 23 and I feel and act like I’m 12.  In other words, I am the incarnation of Josh Baskin.

I’ve put together a list of symptoms that every young male that has self-delusions of immortality can look forward to.  Consider it the Handbook for the Soon-To-Be Middle Aged Man.

Baldness: Thankfully, I do not have any bald spots or thinning areas.  I DO have a slightly receding hairline … which has led to several hours of self examination in the mirror before and after haircuts.  The problem is that it is so gradual that I’m having trouble remembering where my hairline SHOULD have been.  Worse still is that I have a widow’s peak, which will only become more pronounced should my hairline run for the border.

I know for a fact that I do not have a good head for baldness.  In college, I asked for a friend to give me just a subtle cut and he managed to buzz it all off in a fit of uncontrollable laughter in his mom’s garage.  Thanks, Mike.  Plus, I’m white.  And white bald guys either look like drill sergeants or neo-nazi recruiters. This is another area where the caucasion gets screwed genetically.  Even Charles Barkley looks good bald with THAT head?  Are you kidding me?

If my brother is any indication, I’m going to lose more … though his battles are much more severe than mine are at this point.  He has really long hair and covers his frontal hair island with frizziness and a rastafarian beanie-hat-thing.  I’m trying to remember if his head was as bad as it is now when he was my age, four years ago.  Which brings me to …

Please God, Holy Father, Creator of Heaven & Earth … please please please do not let me go bald.  There are other people, man or woman, I don’t care, that deserve this curse more than I.  I know that I wasn’t always the best Catholic, particularly with a certain adolescent expectation of self control … but I always felt guilty afterwards.  My wife has told me that she will love me no matter what – with barely hidden acrimony.  She has also said in separate conversations that all bald men are ugly.  Hmm.  What to believe?

If each of my readers could make a personal intercession to God, Allah, and even L. Ron Hubbard about the whole anti-baldness thing, I would very much appreciate it.

Body Hair: And if baldness wasn’t a big enough kick in the pants, men start to accumulate hair EVERYWHERE else.  I mean everywhere.  My wife has great amounts of fun of pointing out the random 2″ back hair that has sprouted before I can convince her to pluck it.  Or my ear lobes.  Is nothing sacred?

I am not a metrosexual, but I readily and happily admit that I am a body trimmer.  Hairy chest, hairy stomach, hair legs, hairy feet, hairy glutes … I trim it all … because I’m not a Greek plumber nor do I wish to look like one.

By the way, I can grow a fearsome beard.  Even growth, nice boundaries on the cheeks and neck … too bad my wife refuses to let me take the mountain man route.  It could work for me.  Think Brad Pitt in Legends of the Fall.

Do I have to mention that again in the genetic lottery this is another area that the whiteys lost out on?  Try to find me a hairy Asian?  At least I’m not Persian.

Slow Healing: I like to think of this as the anti-Wolverine power, Healing Factor.  Apparently once my metabolism went into anaphylactic shock, my Factor score went negative.  When I was younger, I clearly remember taking a gunshot to the head and being able to play outside the next day.  Now I’ve noticed that when I get a sprain, bruise, or prison shower shive that it takes not days, not weeks, but months to fully recover.  Case in point:

I went up for a header in an indoor game and got completely cleaned out and landed on my face.  My hands instinctively went up to cushion my fall and I ended up hyper-extending my right wrist.  A sprain.  Guess how long it took to recover?  Four months.  Yep.  Four.  Months.  Now granted, it wasn’t all bad … I had a great excuse to not take a turn as goalie as I might reinjure my delicate hand.  Of course, when my phenomenal skills clearly dictate that I should be a striker, it’s really for the team’s benefit.

This really sucks.  When you’re 32 and you get the motivation to start working out … you know when you see the cautionary tale of a 800 pound man in a Wal-mart electric chair for his shopping … you cannot go balls out with your exercises for fear of wrecking a ligament and then being out of action for the remainder of the decade.

Weight Gain: When I was a sophomore in high school, I used to work out at the Rock House Gym with my pal Johnnie.  I had my soccer shorts, my rented weight lifting belt, my retainer, and my bowl haircut.  And I was 134.5 pounds.  I remember this clearly, because it was impossible for me to put on a single ounce that entire summer … even while guzzling Jolt with Pop Rocks.

Now I’m at 177 pounds.  The good news is that I’ve actually lost 15 pounds since I wrote the Suicide Pact article and I’ve got the strength of ten men … so the extra muscle mass has to account for some of it.  But basically said I’ve added 30 pounds in about 15 years or 2 pounds per year.  Apparently, that’s about the same as A-Rod on steroids.

This has everything to do with a catatonic metabolism, a desk job, the money to afford to eat better food, and laziness.  I may have to blame Al Gore for inventing the Internet, as well.  If Facebook, Youtube, and Wikipedia weren’t so damned awesome, I could look like Clay Aiken.  Oh, is that a bad reference?

Nose & Ears: Once I start to get really old, apparently the nose and ears are some of the few body parts that do not stop growing.  That explains a lot because old people have huge, droopy ears.  I’ll let you know when I get to this stage … but nothing yet.

Wouldn’t it be nice if those weren’t the only thing that kept growing.  I’m just saying that with Viagra and Ciallis now available, my Golden Years could really take on a different meaning.  Just imagine what that would do to Internet video.

You know, maybe its best that things stay that way they are …

Gum Disease: I felt obliged to put this one in here, because my wife is a dentist (prosthodontist actually, whatever the hell that is).  Floss everyday, kids, or else you’ll look like Steve Buscemi.

Moles: I do not write the following paragraphs with any sense of pride or acclaim.  I am a moley, moley man.  My wife likes to joke that I’m spotted.  Here’s a truth about getting older … if you have moles, you will likely develop more and the ones that you do have will get bigger.  Yuh-huh.

Here’s a side story.  When I was young, I thought that the various moles on my body were like a gigantic connect-the-dots puzzle.  If I could only figure out how to connect them, some picture or maybe a cosmic truth would be revealed.  I started on my arm and would try to figure something out, but the problem was that my focus was too localized.  If I was able to draw a three-headed cobra from my arm moles … where did that leave the rest of my spotting?

Can we get some type of super computer to work on this?  What if we could match people based on their mole pattern?  It could be a new type of Chinese mysticism.

OK, I’ve reached my limit on this subject.  Pardon me while I puke under my desk.

Decreased Libido: I don’t mean to brag, but really after 17 years old … I haven’t noticed a single different in my interest and performance in this department.  Prior to now, my hormones were nearly insufferable in the crippling, animalistic tsunami of adolescent fantasies.  It was pretty bad … at least now I can link two rational thoughts together.

At 32, I’m still just as … um … frisky with my poor wife as ever.  For her part, I completely reject science’s notion of the woman’s sexual peak at 35.  More like the peak of nap time.  Yeah, yeah, she’s been through one pregnancy and works 12 hours a day … but it wouldn’t stop me for a second.

Just in case my wife reads this and decides to post, I have to say this:

Honey, I said my interest was undeterred, I never made mention of my staying power.  That bit has never changed.  Now go back to sleep, dear.

Whew … that was close.

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