As in old enough to graduate high school. Twice. And have four years to spare.
And it is kinda freaking me out.
Every little thing is reminding me just how human I am. Every time my knees crack and snap when I get up or walk, I am no longer thinking that everything will be fine once I can start running again and get this winter weight off. No…No…No… Now I am wondering how long I can hold off having to get my knees replaced.
As I child, I always though that I had some kind of special power. Like a comic book superhero, my injuries would be less severe than “normal people” or that they would heal faster by some super ability. I even went so far as to thinking my parents had mistakenly left me in playground over top of some toxic waste dump – granting me massive strength and regenerative cells instead of making my hair fall out (wait…).
But statistically, I have officially lived over half of my lifetime. Forget about being on the front side of my forties or the ridiculous claim that “40 is the new 25″. I am on the freaking backside of LIFE dude. A sure, slow decent into the cruel butt cavern of consciousness.
Oh and speaking of butts.
Back when I was 35 I managed to negotiate my way out of getting a prostate exam. During a routine doctor visit, I explained to my friendly physician my family history and after some contemplation, he declared that I could hold off until I was 40. Back then I was ecstatic.
Now I am terrified.
I have said it before and I will probably say it again – but I am extremely uncomfortable with anything that is NOT clothing coming anywhere near that area of my body. The only person I have let even remotely close in the last 30 years has been the WonderWife, and that was to take care of an unfortunate medical condition involving Preparation H.
What? Too much info?
My thoughts are immature. I realize that. But, just like my irrational fear of ingesting pickles, I cannot shake it – it is a fear that haunts me. But here are some things I do know:
1) The night before the appointment, my wife will build me up with a famed Knute Rockne-esque speech.
2) By morning I will act like nothing is bothering me and go to this appointment full of mock confidence and machismo.
3) Five minutes before the procedure, I will be cursing my parents for NOT leaving me on a playground on top of toxic waste.
But life has a funny way of putting things in perspective. As I dread getting older and going past my prime, as I must face my ridiculous fear of my upcoming prostate exam, as I sat there celebrating my venture into my next year of life – with cake in front of me and the smiling faces of my family singing Happy Birthday – I could not help but was think to myself, “It couldn’t get much better.”