Middle-Age-Crazy

When I returned to college as non-traditional student, I felt the urge to grab a bottle of Grecian Formula and start pricing Corvette Stingrays; I was going through a mid-life crises.

I began acting like those old men I used to laugh at when I was a kid. You know the type: They're in their mid-forties; they part their hair down by one ear to hide their bald spots that is until people begin whispering in their noses.

They're also the guys who won't admit they have a middle-age spread and always buy pants two inches too small in the waist and walk around with their stomachs sucked in so deep their chests hit their chins. But I digress.

Now, when I returned to school, I thought I was still in my prime. But one day a young classmate and I were talking, and I mentioned something about the first landing on the moon. "You can remember the first moon landing?!" he exclaimed. By the tone of his voice, you would have thought it had taken place a hundred years earlier.

As if that wasn't bad enough, later that day, while walking to another class, I overheard a couple of young ladies discussing some guy in their previous class who was "at least thirty years old." I was turning thirty-one the following week, and their comment was the one that got me.

For the first time, I noticed my mid-section rolled a little--OK, a lot--over my belt. It was a struggle just to keep from making a mad rush to the nearest pay phone and place an emergency call to Jenny Craig.

For some reason my hair seemed a bit grayer. Old injuries ached a little more; I moved a little stiffer.

And that is why exercising was tough. Oh, I did it, but the morning after, rigor mortis set in, and I'd decide it wasn't worth it. Even my eyelids would get sore from exercising. Once the soreness left, though, and I was amongst the younger crowd again, I'd go middle-age-crazy and the whole routine started over.

Well, that was a while back and I guess things have gotten better, a little anyway. I no longer sit straighter in chairs to stretch the rolls of my stomach so the buttons on my shirt won't pop and my "love handles" won't show.

No, I've discovered loose-fitting, over-sized, non-tuck-in shirts. Not only do they hide the fact that my stomach has gone from a six-pack to a soggy roll of Pillsbury dough boy biscuits, but they also allow me to, when needed, walk around with unsnapped pants and a loosened belt, usually the result of over-eating.

But let’s get back to that little mid-life crisis. I have to admit something good did come out of that. You see, I'd always thought getting old meant that when you go to bed at night you put our teeth in a cup, your ears in a drawer, your eyes in a case, your hair on a shelf, and the friends who visit you the most are the Ritis brothers...Arthur and Bruce.

Now I realize it's all just a matter of perspective.