Getting Old Is Like Living With Chewbacca, or a Reasonable Facsimile
Growing old isn’t for the faint of heart. At least that’s what my father told me roughly 726 times between his 58th birthday and the actual party we had three days later. He never failed to remind me of his daily reality for the rest of his years.
Now I’m there and…he was right. I am ready to admit, with all the humility of a man beaten down by aches, pains, and the inability to sit down or stand up without making noises slightly reminiscent of a calving heifer in the prime of delivery, that age brings unavoidable difficulties with it.
Hello There, Chewbacca
Image by Jim Cooper from Pixabay
One of my biggest life changes with age has to do with hair. As a teenager with aspirations of becoming an adult, I yearned for enough facial hair to justify spending real, live money on a disposable razor. That came soon enough. But in my twenties, I found myself begging the follicle gods to grant me enough chest hair so as to not be embarrassed on my wedding night.
It came, but not for several more years. Needless to say that the aforementioned wedding night was not all I had hoped it would be. But better late than never, right? Wrong. When that chest hair finally arrived, it came with a vengeance. It wasn’t long before going to the pool meant being mistaken for Chewbacca.
Half the kids at the pool would run and hide in terror, while the other half wanted my autograph. I couldn’t convince them I wasn’t a Wookie. So, what did I do? I stopped going out in public without a shirt. Here I am 30 years later, and my body hair is still hanging on. Not only that, it has its own hair. I look in the mirror and am reminded of the Forest Moon of Endor, if you know what I mean.
Strangely enough, I began noticing a few years ago that I was starting to thin on the top of my head. I couldn’t figure out why, especially given the aggressive nature of the Chewbacca hair on my upper body. Then it hit me. By some unholy freak of nature, the hair on top of my head is migrating down through my skull and out my nose. At least half of it is. The other half is trying to escape through my ears! So now I have the unmitigated joy of having to shave both my nasal cavities and ear canals three times weekly. What rapture! What ecstasy!
My Stomach Isn’t Helping
If it were just the hair thing, and the fact that I make grunting noises when I move, I would be okay with getting older. But there’s more. To understand what I’m about to tell you, it must be stated that I am a foodie. I like flavor. If I didn’t want flavorful food, I would move to England.
Anyway, while my hair is trying to escape, my stomach is refusing to go along with my established food preferences. When I eat hamburger, it must be 80% lean or I will be sentenced to life in the bathroom. Hot peppers are now off limits, as are mint chocolate chip ice cream, bananas, and more than a smidgen of peanut butter in a single sitting.
I long for the foods that used to make my taste buds dance. I long to once again feel guilty about eating a super-sized meal from any of the major burger chains. But I dare not put my intestinal tract, or anyone within a 100-yard radius, through such agony.
Dear old Dad was right. Getting old isn’t for the faint of heart. But I can’t stop it — even with laser hair removal and a lifetime’s supply of milk of magnesia.
