Accepting the middle-age mentality

About a year ago, the first sign of middle age gripped me in its semi-bony grasp and slapped me down to Earth, face first I might add. I speak of course of me and my stupid brain, thinking I am still able to run like I did when I was 16 years old, deciding to play a church softball game.

It seemed that no sooner had I got on base, I was put into a double-play situation, which meant I really had to book it in order to reach the next bag. Unfortunately, the way that I “book it” now is quite pitiful really.

Halfway between second and third base I heard a loud SNAP! as a pain shot up my leg like a runaway train, barreling a hot, burning sensation straight into my groin area and into any other body region that it could reach.

So, the lesson I walked away with, or limped away with as the case turned out, was that a 30-year-old hamstring does not respond as well as a 15-year-old hamstring. And of course that everyone watching you hobble to third base like a dying, wounded duck would rather laugh at you hysterically instead of help you to the dugout.

Since that time, I have stayed away from any sporting event that is not safely on television, meaning that there is no way I can possibly participate. In this manner, I felt that I was safe from suffering any further injury to my obviously pathetic frame.

Wrong!

Just the other day, I noticed that my right ankle was throbbing in a way that felt as if my entire foot wanted to just break and fall off of my leg. I started thinking of how I could have hurt my ankle and after racking my brain about it came to a startling conclusion: I hadn’t done anything.

That’s right. Thanks to this wonderful middle-age syndrome, I am now apparently able to hurt myself just by standing up and walking, further proving that my youth is eternally over and that I am basically surviving with one hurting foot in the grave. But I am not alone in this regard.

The other day my wife and I were listening to a comedian while driving in the gas-guzzling SUV and she started laughing extremely hard. You know the type laugh I mean. It was the kind of laugh that if you were drinking milk it would have come flying right out of your nose. Anyway, the next thing I know, we are pulling into a gas station.

“Why are we stopping here?” I asked.

“I think I just peed on myself,” my wife replied, and then she bolted for the restroom.

And I guess that is why we really get married when we are young. It certainly isn’t for all the hot, horny sex. That pretty much goes into hiding the minute your first child is born. No, the reason we get married is so we can grow old together, laughing at our partner’s expense whenever something new goes wrong due to our bodies breaking down and the cruelty of just life in general. And we learn to laugh it off and accept it.

Because let’s face it. In our current conditions, if we tried to retaliate we’d only end up maiming or killing ourselves to a chorus of hysterical laughter.