What's That You Say, Sonny?

So, I went to get my hair cut the other day, and was slapped in the face with an unpleasant reality.

I’m old.

Okay, not so much “old” as in “ready to accept my AARP card” or “eats dinner at 3:00 PM”, but I’m definitely not the spring chicken I like to think I am.

I say this, because, as my barber ran the clippers through my hair and the remnants of his cosmetological (is that even a word?) masterpiece rained down on my protective sheath, I noticed an unusually large amount of dandruff in with my hair. However, upon looking further, I realized that it wasn’t actually dandruff.

It was gray hair.

Then, to make matters worse, on my way back to the office, I encountered a couple of the girls who pass out flyers for all the trendy clubs in town. They usually stand around on the corner and hand them out to all people that pass by that they deem young and/or hip enough.

I normally get these handed to me every time I walk by them. Then, the last three or so times I went by I got nothing. I thought maybe they didn’t see me and went about my business. This time, I walked by not once, but twice – to make sure they saw me. They did. I still didn’t get handed anything.

It was right then I realized that I’m getting up there in years.

Granted, it’s not that bad. I’m a couple months shy of my 39th birthday and relatively healthy [knocks on wood]. It’s not like I’m headed for a nursing home anytime soon [knocks on wood even harder].

But still, it’s not just that I have more shades of gray in my hair than a campaign promise that makes me feel old. There are other, far less subtle signs.

For example, my primary hobby/form of exercise these days is taking Brazilian Jiu Jitsu classes a couple times a week. Now, although a good amount to the guys that study there are in their 20s, it is certainly not out of the realm of normalcy for older guys to train as well. Hell, the owner and head instructor at my school is 45. Of course, he also barely looks 35 and could physically hurt me in ways that I probably haven’t even imagined yet, but I digress. Helio Gracie, who along with his brothers founded the art of BJJ, practiced every day until he recently passed away… at age 95.

Still, when it comes to my training – there isn’t a night when I come home from a class without some new ache or bruise or whatever. Now, logic would dictate that if my classes are causing me that much pain, I should just quit. And, in theory that would be correct. However, it should also be noted that A) I enjoy them and B) I’m not that bright.

The aches actually become more noticeable after I’ve been stationary for a while. Like now, here at work – I’ve been sitting here at my desk for the last hour or so eating my lunch and working on this. I’ll get up in a bit and my knee will be killing me. After a couple steps it will be fine, but still. Five years ago – hell, two years ago – this wouldn’t have been an issue. Now, that’s just life.

Another sign of my age is – as I briefly mentioned in my last post – how I seemingly have traded in my own, perfectly good bladder, for that of one belonging to a 90-year old Lilliputian.

I can’t think of one time in recent memory that I’ve made it through an entire night of sleep without waking up at least once to drain the thimble – well, at least one that wasn’t assisted heavily by alcohol.

This is definitely troubling for me.

The thing that really freaks me out is when I have one of those dreams where I really have to pee. Eventually, I start going in the dream and will usually wake up shortly thereafter and take care of business.

I’m horrified of those dreams. Not so much because of the dream itself, but of the almost guaranteed fact that one of these days, I’m going to start peeing in my dream – and in my bed. I’m not even considering “if” it will happen any more. Vegas has taken those odds off the board. It’s now a question of “when” it will happen. And if you don’t think the Mrs. will stand for that more than once before she starts making me wear an adult diaper to bed – well, you don’t know my wife very well.

Still, I guess at the end of the day, there’s not much I can do about it. I’m getting old and nothing short of a James Dean-esque plunge off a twisty road in the California hills – or bathing in the blood of 100 virgins – is going to stop it. So, I suppose I’ll have to learn to accept it. For better or worse.

And, luckily for me, I’ll get my first chance at learning acceptance soon – my 20-year high school reunion is just around the corner. And I’ll be there in all my glory – with or without my Depends.