I’m quickly realizing that with advanced age comes changes … and I’m not talking about those changes you look forward to, like more independence and a greater tolerance for booze. I’m pretty sure I have too much of both of those as it is. Without giving too much away, let’s just say my next birthday is one of those fucking “milestones.” I’ve been attempting to approach it with grace, but after yet another fall from my damn lounge chair this week, I’m starting to wonder how much longer I can pull this shit off.
I’ve never considered myself much of a runner, but rather one who occasionally runs. Since this week has been so freakin’ hot, and with my stupid milestone birthday on the horizon, I turned to walking out of nothing more than sheer fear of strokin’ out on a casual jog. The only time I even considered a run this week was one night when I really wanted a cig. But jogging down to the store for a pack of squares seemed too ironic, even for me. Luckily a girlfriend called and asked me to come over and help her try on her wedding dress. I skipped the run and drove over to her place. Skipping is exercise, right?
I used to make fun of those people who power walk. But after a few rather enjoyable strides around my hood, I’m a bit embarrassed to say it’s kinda awesome. My gluts are thankful, too. That’s right. I’m publicly making the claim that walking is better for butt muscles than running. And with that beach trip fast approaching, I’m willing to sacrifice my reputation around town in order to have a tight ass in South Carolina. The people who see my butt in a bathing suit aren’t gonna know I firmed it up looking like a damn fool lunge-walking in Central Illinois. And as a side note, if you ever catch me doing arm exercises on these walks, feel free to punch me.
In addition to my personal changes, two of my best friends are getting married a week apart from each other this summer. As excited as I am for their new journeys to begin, I am getting to witness rather extensively the amount of stress involved in the last stretches of wedding planning. All I’m responsible for is a bachelorette party, and even that’s a workout. I thought I had a lead on a stripper, but my contact just got back to me with, “No one remembers where the naked man came from.” Now I’m asking myself, “Where do I get a naked man?” Maybe we’ll just rent some stripper poles and entertain each other … that seems to be a hot topic this week, and it might even help firm up my booty.
Getting older does have its advantages, of course. For example, I caught an open bottle of wine staring at me while I was beginning to prepare a pretty gourmet meal the other evening. I looked at the clock — 4:45. In my youth, I would have let society’s norms stop me from the benign indulgence. It’s also likely that I would have set the clock ahead fifteen minutes in order to be socially acceptable. Instead, in my newfound wisdom, I confidently poured a nice glass and proceeded to cook a lovely meal.
Finally, it’s easier to get away with saying crazy shit as you get older. I don’t mean really crazy, like putting yourself at risk of being locked away, but just pulling shit off when you say something that crosses a line or insults somebody. I put my foot in my mouth the other day when I said to a friend, “Were you there when we were totally laughing about her shoes?” Her response: “Yeah. Those were my shoes. Bitch.” Oops. They say memory is the first to go. I’m okay with that … I’d rather lose my memory than my ass. Huh … I’m still driven by vanity. Maybe I’m younger than I thought.