Chronologically Speaking

A lot of my readers (as if there are more than two of them) want to know how old I am. I’m 59, which might sound a bit old, but it’s really not when you consider that it’s only 15 Celsius.

Like all aging people, I’ve lost some physical beauty and abilities. Thirty years ago, people used to tell me that I looked like a god. I still look like a god, only now it’s Buddha. My abdominal six-pack has turned into a keg. I can’t even touch my toes without the help of some form of artificial arm extension, like, say, a 3-iron.

I become envious when I see young folks jogging or playing sports. Their slim, muscular bodies emphasize how old I’m getting because I haven’t been in that kind of shape since Bruce Willis had hair. Occasionally I’ll go for a jog in order to delude myself that I’m still as fit as a fiddle. It always starts well: I feel healthy and energetic, and I think that maybe this time I’ll break a personal record. This lasts for about 11 seconds. Then I get tired, but I don’t dare go back home because I don’t want my neighbors to think I’m weird (as if they don’t already). So I stay out for a respectable length of time, which would be about 15 or 20 minutes, during which I cover maybe three-fourths of a mile — longer with a good tailwind.  When I finally arrive back home, I lie down, moan for several minutes, and vow never to do anything that stupid again.

I joined a gym once. After they explained to me that “free weights” aren’t gifts to be taken home, I started exercising. It was highly embarrassing to see young studs benching 350 pounds while I had a 30-pound weight in each hand. If they and I were contestants on “Survivor,” they would sit around the campfire laughing about how scrawny and feeble I was and commenting on how much I tasted like chicken.

One time, I saw someone at the squat rack hefting 475 pounds, emitting loud grunts, with the biggest legs I’ve ever seen. She was scary.

Some days I’ll avoid the weight room altogether and take an aerobics class. I mirror the anorexic instructor’s movements in an attempt to produce the kind of body that will get me accepted by the “beautiful people,” who I’ve never met because they all live in expensive, gated communities where the guards have orders to shoot unpleasant-looking people like me on sight.

Even the most highly trained athletes are not immune to the aging process. Have you ever been watching the Olympics, and the camera zooms in on a former athlete? The announcer will make some upbeat comment such as, “And here we see Irving Pacemaker, who won the 1932 pole vault. He currently resides at Seizure World Assisted Living Center, and often goes to the bathroom all by himself!”

When I was young, I used to flex in front of the mirror, enjoying the size and definition of my muscles and “V” shape. Now, I don’t want to know what I look like. Neither does my mirror. Whenever I stand in front of it, it says, “Oh no, not you again.” I don’t need my mirror to remind me how old I am – my bladder already does that.

Thank you for putting up with my horrible life story. I hope you read my column next month. If I live that long.