Aging at warp factor seven

Is that a mole? A liver spot? It could be some kind of crusty chocolate stain from dessert last night, but that how would it get on my shoulder blade?
Those are just a few of the inquiries I make upon looking at myself at the dawn of a new day. I'm forty-six now, and I used to just give myself a perfunctory glance every morning. Now it's a full-on exam. In my twenties, I would just stand facing the mirror head-on. Now it's more of a William Shatner type of pose, with the stomach sucked in at a profile angle, and the shoulders jutting out to a middle-aged silty delta.
After assessing each skin discoloration, it's time to evaluate actual fat deposits. My weight typically fluctuates about 15 pounds, depending on El Nino weather patterns, but the fat location is consistent. It's like the government strategic oil reserve; there's always a nice little reservoir in case my body needs to feed off itself for the winter. Well, so much for the gut. It doesn't look too bad as long as I'm still doing the Captain Kirk suck-up.
Unfortunately, I've yet to develop a technique for retracting, for lack of a better term, the "mreasts" (short for mister breasts). I try to think pragmatically; we have quite a few sports bras around the house. Surely, no one would notice just one missing. No, I can't risk the chance that someone may pat me on the back and feel the straps. We'll leave the mammary conundrum for another day.
I continue north, with the renegade eyebrow hairs that are twice the length and thickness of the others, much like antennae. They stick out so far, I look like one of the Bugaloos. Or the receding hairline, which isn't even a line, it's a tuft of ocean grass. I actually feel another smattering of empathy for Shatner, who probably had one too many mornings just like this one, and thought, "Hair.......piece." (You know—the way he might say it).
Well, enough of this self-criticism. Time to get in the Camaro and go to work.