Like most men my age, I’m 43 years old. And I’ve learned one thing through these short decades; aging is an adventure all by itself. It’s not one of those kinds of adventures you’d seek out; I didn’t compare prices on the internet for a good deal on aging and I didn’t look for a special agent like you might for travel. But aging is an adventure nonetheless.
One such adventure of aging involves memory. Specifically, other people’s memory because mine reached full capacity when I discovered breasts, roughly 30 years ago. As a result I’d forget my own head if it wasn’t permanently attached. So I have to ask things like, “where are my keys?” To which my wife might answer, “On the bathroom counter where you left them five minutes ago.” Or, “where are my glasses.” To which my wife says, “On your face.” If she didn’t remember these little details, such as where my face is located (“Behind your glasses, dumbwit”) I’d be lost.
And as always with male genders, hair adds to the adventure of aging. Such as, I didn’t used to shave my ears. Now I’m forced to because otherwise people ask if they were donated by a baboon. And other genders, that I won’t name but you know who you are, seem to think we grow ear hair and go bald on purpose. One of my non-male coworkers criticizes her husband for his shiny scalp. As if his daily Hygiene To-Do list says:
- Don’t forget deodorant
- Shave face and ears
- Lose even more hair
(Side note: If I weren’t so decent I’d point out that hair loss is passed down from the mother’s side. Which means that instead of falsely accusing their husbands of going bald, other genders should stop passing this trait on to their sons. But I won’t point this out because that would be crass.)
Most men can remember when their toenails could be trimmed with just clippers. We should have taken advantage of it then. Instead we’d let them grow through the ends of our shoes until our wives demanded that we “trim those bird claws.” Now we have to use tools that get plugged into electric outlets, like hedge trimmers and belt sanders.
This means it’s a considerable achievement to get one’s toes well groomed, so one leaves one’s toenail clippings on the dining table until one hears one’s kids exclaim, “Wow! Look at Dad’s toenails!” Then one can feel good that one’s accomplishment has been appreciated by someone other than oneself. (This paragraph was not a confession. Nor was it good use of the word “one”.)
So this is what I have to look forward to via aging; hair migrating from my head to various other body parts. And from what I’ve learned by talking with those who’ve already lived this adventure, it goes downhill from here. So I’ve decided to preemptively shave my head. Also, I need to ask my wife if she’s seen my belt sander.