A Litany Of Complaints

A word of advice, my friends: Never turn 36. If at all possible, skip the 36th year, go right to 37. Trust me, 36 is not a good ‘un.

That’s because 36 is the year where the body really starts falling apart. I can tell you this from experience. Since I’ve turned 36, just about half a year ago…

– I’ve had a god two months of consistent sore throats.

– One of which led to an ear infection, my first in more than 20 years, which led to my first ever trip to the emergency room for myself.

– The worst 3 months of winter asthma.

– The first time really suffering from allergies, including two recent attacks that had me looking like Quasimodo on a bad day.

– A pinched ulnar nerve that currently has two of the fingers of my left hand feeling numb/tingly. I’ll be sleeping in an elbow brace until that heals.

– Assorted additional aches and pains.

I’m a realist. I knew that the good times and good health of youth doesn’t last forever. And since I’m of the age where a corvette purchase and a college aged girlfriend would occasion no more than a knowing glance and a whisper of “Mid Life Crisis,” I realize that I am now in my middle age. But I do now somewhat find myself nostalgic for those carefree days when a headache was just a headache, rather than a reason to rush to WebMD and look up all their information on brain tumors.

Perhaps this is something I should try to handle with dignity, but if I’ve gone 35 years without that trait, I don’t see how I’m going to start now. Old dogs, new tricks, you know. But if I don’t plan to handle my voyage into elder statesmanship with any kind of grace, the least I can do is to do so with humor.

And at least I still have my hair.

Now where are those college girls?