The September Of My Years

Do you remember your birthdays when you were younger? Those themed birthday parties that held you as the center of attention? Inevitably, an aunt, uncle, or grandparent would come up to you, possibly give you the dreaded cheek pinch, and ask, “Do you feel older?”

No one asks that anymore. Why? Because they don’t want the real answer.

Yes, Tammy, I do feel older. Thanks for bringing that up. If you’d like, you can kick one of my cats in front of me and hint that it looks as though I’ve put on a few pounds. Maybe tell me I’m not intelligent, or that you’ve heard rumors that everyone secretly hates me.

No one likes a Tammy.

The fact is, my recent birthday does have me feeling older.

The day before, I spent an hour and a half at the Department of Motor Vehicles so I could renew my license. I sat in the company of an older woman who, unlike any other person in the building, was having to wait for her number to be called. She did some pacing. She did a lot of cursing under her breath. In fact, the only time she smiled was when she was finally having her ID picture taken. It was a smile of victory. My own picture turned out very differently. The employee taking the picture told me to look at the big cut-out of SpongeBob SquarePants just below the lens. And then kept telling me to lower my chin while still looking at the image. The resulting photograph makes me look like Jack Nicholson in The Shining, but with an odd double-chin of which I was unaware I had. No worries. I’ll only have to carry that around with me for a handful of years, terrifying any cashier who is unfortunate enough to card me for alcohol.

Today, just before sitting down to write this, I had to access my blog page and change the age in my description from 37 to 38.

Within the last month, I’ve noticed that I now have random pains that like to surprise me. Upper right thigh? Check. Left ankle? Check. These make for an interesting image when they decide to kick in at the same time. I end up moving like an extra on The Walking Dead who is about to have something sharp poked through his forehead. I just hope Maggie does it so I can look her in the eyes and have one beautiful, shared moment.

A few weeks ago, a random customer on whom I was waiting (let’s call her Tammy), interrupted me while I was listing our draft beers to tell me I should get Botox because I have a frown wrinkle between my eyebrows. In fairness, “Tammy” had no wrinkles at all (nor expressions), despite being in her late sixties. Botox is afloat because of “Tammy.” However, that made me look at the rest of my skin. I now have weird wrinkles at the back of my wrists. Although I’ve prided myself on never being the guy with a furry back, rogue hairs occasionally pop up on my shoulders. Revenge is exacted on the bastards by way of a pair of tweezers and me craning my neck at an impossible angle, making the side of my neck look reminiscent of smooshing a bulldog’s face.

Standing up from this writing to use the restroom and grab some Tums reminded me of the substantial arthritis in my lower back to match the acid reflux.

Speaking of the restroom, I’m proud to announce that I usually only have to get up once in the middle of the night to use it. That doesn’t account for the twenty minutes of weighing my options before doing so. Can I sleep for another couple hours before urinating all over myself, or would it be better to do the hobbled zombie-walk to the toilet before the sounding of my alarm?

Do you remember the word “metabolism” from health class in junior high? It seemed like just one more thing we were being forced to learn that would have no bearing on us in life. “Metabolism” was my body’s form of trigonometry. It sounded important, but I would never have to worry about it outside the classroom. Now, I’m thinking of putting together a scrapbook in honor of my lost friend Metabolism. She was amazing. She was always there for me, even when I didn’t realize it. 15,000 calories in day? No problem. She rolled up her sleeves and kicked some tail. In the wake of Metabolism’s passing, eating a piece of bread is the equivalent of attaching an air pump to my love handles.

In my twenties, I was complimented all the time on my butt in a pair of jeans. I would get at least a few compliments while bartending every month. I’m not a vain person, but I’ll admit it always felt good. Those days are past. Imagine a Stone pine tree morphing into a Weeping Willow. You just visualized what happened to the old caboose. From a smile to a frown.

This is what has become of me at 38.

I had to renew my license because I have been driving for over two decades. During that time, I have traveled to some incredible places. I have seen the country.

I had to change my age on my blog page because I have been doing what I love and writing with dedication for almost a year.

My ankles and hips sometimes ache because I have spent my entire adult life working on my feet. I have built decks and houses. Homes for families. I have transported patients around a hospital, having conversations with them about their lives and watching them go from their worst to their best. I have trained servers and bartenders for a prominent restaurant chain, being partly responsible for the success of that company. I have served adult beverages that conquered people’s nerves enough to introduce themselves in bars. Some of those couples went on to marry and have children.

My skin has wrinkled and become tougher because I have spent so many gorgeous days in the sun. Cookouts with family. Walking the zoo with my daughter. Having drinks on a boat with friends.

I have acid reflux because I have spent decades feasting on delicious meals.

My back aches because I spent years carrying around the most unique and beautiful human being I’ve ever met. She calls me Dad.

My bladder, as tired as it may be, is only exhausted from multiple years of imbibing cocktails and holding it so as not to miss one more laugh with company.

As for my metabolism and sad posterior, they’re simply reminding me that exercise is important and to never become complacent.

This is what has become of me at 38.

I’ll take it.

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