Over the weekend, I was alerted to the presence of a few dark hairs growing in the small of my back. That means long nose and ear hairs are not far behind. My skin is losing its elasticity and, in the process, revealing some ancient and positively Dane Cook-esque adolescent acne scars that I never even realized existed back when my skin was taut and dewy with youth. (My dermatologist was dismissive, telling me, “Guys can get away with looking a bit more rugged.” At least I think that’s what he said; it was hard to hear him while I was face-down, crying into a pillow with a disposable quilted paper pillowcase.) My metabolism is slowing and my middle is widening. When viewed from certain (all) angles this gives me the appearance of having a second, non-functional ass perched atop my original one. I can probably fix this, but it will take an actual, rather than stated, commitment to exercise as well a denial of certain things I enjoy. (whiskey, beer, red velvet cake) Plus, even if I do spend more time in the gym, the treadmill has been hell on my knees lately. Sitting cross-legged is difficult, and makes me feel silly in Lisa’s yoga classes.

But still, even as my knees fail me and my body sprouts weird hairs and I can’t stay out late like I used to and Saturday nights spent at home don’t really leave me feeling unwanted or left behind, and I’m making myself drink water and moisturize before I go to bed to avoid looking like Clint Eastwood’s neck, somehow I’m able to temporarily ignore all these undeniable signs of aging and get all crying-eyed and queer for movies like American Teen. I wonder if that sensation ever goes away, and is replaced by curly silver hairs and tumors.

But sincerely: “there’s a lot of grease on the table now.”

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