On Being an Older Dad--Part 1

Saturday, I turn 36. Sadly, thanks to the premature aging that having children has rigorred (perhaps that should just be rigored, I can't remember the rule, not that it would matter what the rule said, as this could just be made an exception anyway) all over my body, I'm not sure I can believably claim to be 29 any longer. Maybe I'll try to claim that I'm 34 for a half decade or so, though I'm not sure that saying I'm 36 would be all that believable to the casual observer.

As my yearly tradition dictates, I've spent the last, well, twelve months, really, reflecting on what it means to get older--as it applies to my being a father and in general, and I've come to several important realizations.

(Note: I've just finished the first portion of this post, and already it is insufferably long, so it is now going to be a two part affair. The first portion will be general bitchings about being old and the second will be observational bitchings about my age as it relates to being a parent. You're welcome for saving you the trouble of skipping all the best parts because you're eyes are too fatigued to keep going on.)

People who say that "40 is the new 30" are either in denial or had children at a young age and are, thus, afforded a rejuvenating freedom that I won't know again until I'm in my late 40s (and 50 DAMN well better be the new 25, or I'm going to be pissed for putting forth the effort to get there). Either way, they are wrong. As far as I'm concerned, 36 is the new 50. Problems that I never dreamed of as a teenager have begun to plague me:

1) Thanks to years of careless sports activity in my youth, my joints, muscles, tendons, and whatever else occupies the insides of my appendages ache pretty much all the time. I can't sleep for more than four hours at a time without waking up feeling as though I've been confined inside a coffin or largish cedar chest for the better part of a week.

2) I have developed what I can only assume are the "corns" people refer to on their feet (I haven't had the nerve to actually find out what they are because knowing for sure would just be too depressing--as the mental image I have of corns is that of Selma and Patty, Marge's sisters on the Simpsons, asking the children to file down their corns while they watch MacGyver).

3) Plucking errant nose hairs has become part of a weekly ritual. Conversely, the hair that I've managed to keep on the top of my head falls out if the ceiling fan in the dining room is on too high.

4) Almost ALL of the foods that I love have been deemed unsafe for consumption either because my metabolism has slowed down to that of a hibernating bear and I'd rather not add "700 pound shut-in" to my already depressingly inadequate resume or because it gives me terrible heart burn. Sweet foods, anything with tomato sauce, and milk products all make my stomach feel like it used to only when I'd consumed a pint of bourbon in my younger days. And without those things, what's left to enjoy in life?

5) Every time I closely examine my skin, I notice a "new" spot. I qualify "new" with quotes because, honestly, my brain is so addled that I'm often not sure if I've noticed the spot before. That doesn't, however, mean that I'll assume it's not skin cancer. Honestly, looking back, I wish I'd worn more sunscreen. I spent much of my first thirty years on the planet sporting a pretty good tan--thanks to what I have to assume is good skin genetics, I can get a tan after only about twenty hours in the sun (spread out over a week or so). But, now, in retrospect, I have to ask myself "why did I bother?" It's not like having a good tan got me extra laid in high school or college, and it certainly didn't after I got married. So what was the point? Answer: there was none. I would have been better off either staying inside where it was more comfortable or lathering up with sunscreen and maintaining the slightly pasty pallor my skin naturally takes on so that I could now NOT worry about the night sky's worth of freckles, moles, and splotches that make most of my upper body look like the connect-the-dot section of a McDonald's tray liner.

6) Concepts like "the prostate" are now not-so-subtly pushing themselves from the very bottom of my brain up to the front where I have to acknowledge not only their existence but their possible relevance. I've always had a notoriously small bladder (I can say "notorious" because it is well known to anyone who knows me, and it has also led to quite a collection of minor memories throughout the years--specifically as it plays into various road trips and other times when being able to go more than two hours without a trip to the loo makes my normal routine of trips to the can all the more noticeable). On top of that, I am rarely more than ten steps away from a drink of some sort--I took that whole "drink lots of fluids" thing I was told constantly as a child very seriously and still do to this day. Until recently, I had always just assumed it was a small bladder, but NOW I have to wonder if I shouldn't get my prostate checked. And nobody, no matter what age, should have to carefully weigh the options of having a person who is, for all intents and purposes, a stranger plug a sensitive access hole versus letting a POTENTIALLY hazardous condition go unchecked. I won't say that I have nightmares about the many ways such an event could go horribly, horribly wrong, but that's just because I don't want to have to go into any of the embarrassing details.

7) I could probably go on for several more paragraphs, but I won't, at least not on this portion of my reflections.

And here I will postpone the latter half of this exercise until tomorrow.