Adjustments Must Be Shown

Around the age of 45 or so I was forced into making certain adjustments. My body was now doing all sorts of strange things, and I had to adapt to the new reality. It was almost like a second puberty: equally as disturbing but lacking the mysterious magic of the first go ‘round.

For instance, there was once again hair sprouting in bizarre places. This time on my earlobes and protruding from my nose holes. Just wild and wiry hairs, that you could use to pop a balloon if necessary, going in every direction and not following any of the accepted rules of nature as I knew them. By the time I was 50 I had the eyebrows of a high-ranking Russian official. It was grotesque.

Adjustments

I subjected myself to the indignity of purchasing a battery-powered nose hair trimmer from Amazon. It was a dark day, my friends. It was all I could do to tap the CONFIRM PURCHASE button; I believe my hand was shaking. When I removed it from the box, I felt shame and disappointment at the ludicrous apparatus before me. Then I fired it up and swirled it around inside my left nostril and thrilled at the clicking and clacking of coarse cables being snapped with every rotation. It sounded like I was riding a wooden roller coaster. I couldn’t wait to get to my right nostril to start the process all over again, and wished I had a third one. I now find myself mildly addicted to it. It’s one of my favorite new sounds: rogue nose and earlobe hairs being shown who’s boss.

While getting haircuts I’m now routinely asked if I’d like my eyebrows trimmed. The first time I was mortified, and said no. I mean, what the hell? That’s an old man procedure, I don’t need that yet. Then, at some point, one of them just did it without asking and I felt sleek as a bullet. I was gliding through the world like a porpoise in a lagoon. Today I request (demand) it if it’s not offered. I now love the eyebrow trim and won’t leave the chair without it. That, along with the neck-back fluffy jungle eradication, will truly brighten a day.

Somewhere between 45 and 50 I noticed something new going on down below too. I was in a near-constant state of discomfort. I was always adjusting, tweaking, plucking, and lifting. It wasn’t pain, just a never-ending need to rearrange things. What in the sweet and buttery shit is going on here?? I mentioned it at my website and several guys, older than me, let me know it was now time to invest in “better underwear.” Better? That was confusing to me. There’s just underwear, right? I mean, when I was a kid my brother and I always laughed at the fancy flyless bikini drawers that came in a tube and can remember my mother shooting me a watch your step look when I said, “And if you haven’t done your laundry in a while, you can just wear the tube!” But other than that, I didn’t really know anything about better (or worse) underwear.

Adjustments

At first I scoffed, of course, but eventually tiptoed into the shadowy mysterious world of high-end undergarments. It caused me to grimace while I was researching it online, because there was always some buff and shiny (covered in Wesson Oil for some reason?) model on there who apparently purchased a three pack: one for wearing and two to stuff down the front to create an impossible bulge. Good Lord!

I was shocked to learn that some of that stuff is incredibly expensive, like $35 per pair or more. Amazing. I don’t even like to spend that much on shirts. But I finally pulled the trigger on some “better” more-reasonably-priced britches and could tell the difference instantly. They weren’t 100% cotton, which was new to me. They had a hint of Spandex or something similar, which gave them a compression quality. It felt weird and foreign at first, but I quickly realized I was on the right track.

There was something still slightly askew, but I knew the brave men who had gone before me – the Lewis & Clark of ball-comfort – had steered me in the right direction. After some additional trial and error, I was able to find the perfect solution. For me, anyway. I’m not going to offer any specific recommendations, because everyone is different. You’re just going to have to go on your own personal middle-aged underwear odyssey. It’s harrowing for sure, but there’s a payoff at the end. Godspeed, my friends!

The other big physical change has been with the color of my hair. When I started my current job, in 2007, my picture was taken for my badge, and has never been updated. So, I see it often. Back then I had jet-black hair. Now? There’s way more salt than pepper. Oh, the degradation is pronounced. Luckily, I’m kind of stout, so there aren’t many wrinkles. Yes, fat is nature’s Botox, and I reap the benefits of that fact every day. But my hair is basically gray. I mean I was described last year in a written statement at work as a “heavyset gray-haired man who entered the room bellowing.” That incident had nothing to do with me, really. But the person writing it was very thorough and wanted everything on the record. I didn’t care for any of it, if you want to know the truth.

Adjustments

Nothing. I’m not doing a thing to my hair. I need to draw the line somewhere. I suspect both my grandfathers are already spinning in their graves because of my fussy undies and salon-kept eyebrows. Indeed, I can almost see my mother’s father suggesting, through a cloud of Pall Mall smoke, that I book a “me day” at the spa with the rest of the ladies. I’m not coloring my hair too. To paraphrase the great philosopher Meat Loaf, I’ll do a lot of shit, but I won’t do that.

In five years I might look back on these “troubling developments” and roll my eyes. What a crybaby, I’ll say. Look at what’s happening now! It’s a full collapse. I wish nose hair was all I had to worry about. Obviously, I hope that’s not the case. But I guess we’ll see. Or will I even notice? Hey, maybe I’ll start a bitching journal to keep track of what I’m complaining about at any given time? That way I can flip back a year or two and see if my complaints have been adjusted, along with all this other stuff? The best-case scenario is to achieve a holding pattern in your bitching. Right? If you’re not adding new complaints about your body, things are going well. A journal would be handy because the moaning tends to slowly morph and change without anyone realizing it. Like the color of my hair.

Dear bitching diary, Do they still make the tube underwear? If so, my size would probably come in something that resembles a Pringles can. Ya know? On account of the fat-ass. Thank you for your assistance in this matter.

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