I'm getting old? How'd that happen?
So time, as they say, slowly marches on. Except in my case, it's not slow at all. For me, time is sprinting faster than Darren Danielson rushing through the news so he can get home to update his hairspray blog.
("Tried the John Frieda Luxurious Volume Extra Hold today, dear readers, which was good because Justin Liles couldn't stop exploding with laughter at his own weather puns.")
Every morning I wake up and discover a new place on my anatomy that has sagged, bulged or discolored into splotches that resemble an overripe banana. The warranty on my body didn't just run out, it hopped a bullet train to somewhere warm and is lying around on Paperwork Beach, ogling other piles of fine print. I'm finding more daily activities that I can no longer do, smell, read or feel ... sometimes all at once. It's more frustrating than Don Ness trying to sneak back into City Hall for the 72nd time this month.
("Sorry, Emily, but I just need to find my Hannah Montana cassettes, then I'm gone for sure!")
Take my back. Please. It was giving me so much trouble last month, I visited my chiropractor for a tune-up. After examining the x-ray, the term "degenerative vertebra" was tossed out, which is back-doctor fancy talk for "You're old."
I can't read the fine print in my Budgeteer contract anymore unless it's held as far away from my face as Proctor. And then there's my digestive system, recently labeled a weapon of mass destruction by the Department of Defense. Food goes in one end and by the time it passes through, it's been transformed into a dangerous gas cloud with enough toxicity to kill houseplants, knock out the cat and force a confession out of Saddam Hussein.
But despite this inexorable crawl to life's finish line, at least my head is still full of golden blonde, shoulder length hair ... IN MY DREAMS! My high school hair took one look at the real world after graduation and ran screaming into the night. I thought I spied it a couple years back, relocated onto Stewart Mills' head, but now it appears to have disappeared again. Just like Stewart Mills' election chances.
Unless I discover a Fountain Pop of Youth in any of the bazillion Kwik Trips springing up around here, my body will continue to blaze a path to pudgy glory ... wait! That gives me an idea! I'll summon up the ghost of Jeno Paulucci and figure out the secret to eternally looking good.
("Simple! Cram yourself in the freezer and only come out when it's time to sue someone's pants off!")
Brian Matuszak is the founder of Rubber Chicken Theater and invites you to follow him and his theater company on Twitter at twitter.com/rchickentheater, like them on Facebook at Rubber Chicken Theater and visit their website at www.RubberChickenTheater.com. He’s actually been staving off old age by tucking up his double chin.