Pretty in Gray

Hello and happy June! According to my new bestie, ChatGPT, the month of June attributes its name to Juno, the Roman goddess of marriage and childbirth, among other things.  

Okay, first of all, let's state the obvious: June should not be named after some nebulous pagan deity—it should be named after freaking June Cleaver. She's the goddess of basically everything, and will forever beckon my heart until we meet again for a hearty back hug and glass of whole milk in heaven's kitchen.

And secondly, marriage and childbirth are two completely disparate arenas for Juno to preside over. Weddings don't involve excruciating lumbar pain, ice chips and spectacular torrents of profanity directed at the groom for inflicting such suffering. That happens on the honeymoon (ba-doom-bah).

Anyway, thought I'd grease the skids a little by rattling off a few more fake headlines that were left strewn across The Needling's cutting room floor over the past month or so:

• Kraken drops Root Sports and pisses off all 4 subscribers.
• Trump confused about why Supreme Court won't grant immunity to his debilitating syphilis.
• West Seattle man jogs into crosswalk with 3 seconds to go and still makes it to other side in plenty of time.
• All light rail stations slated to include Level 1 trauma centers by 2035.
• West Seattle man confirms that it's the end of the world and the ants are taking over.
• Justice Alito says every day is Flag Day, bitch.
• "I love that shit, man." Biden perplexed as to why Israel wants to eliminate hummus.
• Group of pissed off kids and a few adults with PTSD chase away Seafair Pirates for fucking good.
• For 143rd straight year, lawn darts and Jågermeister top Father's Day wishlists.
• Record low tide at Alki reveals body of Jimmy Hoffa.
• Trump-Biden debate to include dunk tank.

There we go. Helps the digestion to purge myself of that mental flotsam. I feel randy and spry once again. 

In other non-developments, it's hard to believe I've been pretired* now for over four months.

*"Pretired" is a term I made up. It's defined as the 5-7 year period prior to full-on retiring, when jobless oldsters are most vulnerable to ageist asshole hiring managers and their bullshit attitudes about older people. The word is a shirt-tail relative of "funemployment." 

I had heard that getting a job was more challenging for those of us a little longer in the ear hair, but experiencing it in real time was a little shocking. One interview seemed to have gone particularly well. It was a solid 45 minutes long and it seemed like the role was a perfect fit for my skill set. In addition, I felt like I'd really hit it off with the Chief Creative Officer (a title I now find sort of obnoxious). I was ready to enter the weekend feeling more confident than Rudy Guiliani with a new catheter. But at the very end, just before signing off, he thanked me for my time and told me that "we're looking for someone who can inject some energy into our department." 

Right. Energy. I understand your code, hipster. One of the most frustrating things I've encountered during my job search is the assumption that five or six good years at a place just isn't enough for an employer to take the "risk". Here's a little secret for the chief creative poobah: My generation is one of the most loyal workforces out there. I can't speak for X, Y or the Millennials, but in my experience, if you can get five years out of anyone these days, that's pretty damn good. 

But bitterness is not a good look, right? Two recent documentaries—Brats, with Andrew McCarthy and Thank You, Goodnight, with Jon Bon Jovi—illustrate just that. Both men are staring down 60 and both appear quite unsettled about their legacies. They go to extremes to get answers, and (spoiler alert), I'm not sure the answers were the ones they were chasing. Men my age tend to define themselves by their careers, and that's my challenge. Paradigms grow calcified over time, and I can choose to wallow in the unfairness of it all, or I can move forward and find joy in the everyday. 

It's what my favorite people already do.

Your guess is as good as mine. Probably better, actually.

Hey there, stranger! I'd like to start out with some flash fiction to illustrate today's topic.

John was stressed. 

He'd promised Shirley he wouldn't be late, and at this point it had become an agonizing certainty. She'd never met the Hancocks, John's now-married college roommates, and he knew Shirley would be highly chapped if the couple arrived before John got home. 

Perspiring with the vigor that only a healthy anxiety can muster, John boarded the bus and sat next to an older women who smelled of soggy tobacco and Robitussin. Beads of clamminess lined his forehead as he unzipped his raincoat and did some quick math—25 minutes to get to my stop, another 15 to walk home from there... shit, that puts me home ten minutes after they're supposed to get there. Damnit! He took a few deep breaths. Nothing I can do about it now, right? I'll get there when I get there.

He tried to imagine potential discussion topics between his wife and the Hancocks, but nothing really came to mind besides the usual traffic and weather defaults. Flustered even further, John focused on more pleasant thoughts as the packed vehicle lumbered back to the suburbs. 

John's armpits. while no longer depositing corpulent sweat dollops into the contours of his torso, hadn't fully dried by the time he stepped off the bus. Five minutes to get home. Impossible.  He'd grown accustomed to his odd route to and from the bus stop each workday: a c-shaped journey that took him around the fenced-off square block that held the ruins of the Creedmoor Psychiatric Center. Shirley and he had moved in across the street from the place four years ago, and while a hedge blocked any view of the hospital from the street, John always assumed he and Shirley had gotten a good deal on their townhouse because of its close proximity to an abandoned nuthouse. 

Now, with five minutes before his guests were to arrive, he surveyed the block's elongated fence line and broke into a jog to shave some time off his tardiness. Distractedly punching at a padlocked gate fifteen yards down the sidewalk, John's New Balances squeaked to a stop as he watched the door swung inward. 

Holy shit, What luck! he thought, pushing the gate further open as the rusty lock plummeted and clacked on the sidewalk. This is perfect, I can just cut through here. Once I get to the other side, I'll hop the fence, jog another 90 feet and bam! Home on time—sweating like a pig—but home on time.

John squeezed between the hedge's thick trunks, feeling oddly guilty that he'd lived across the street from this place for four years, yet never checked it out. As his body poked through the foliage, John gazed to his left upon the looming structure, its Gothic spires silhouetted against the pink winter sunset. 

What are you doing standing here? Go! John broke into a high-stepping jog, his shins brushing rhythmically through the grass and weeds that comprised the facility's expansive but unkempt front lawn. John pranced steadily and deliberately toward the other side, intent on getting through this creepy lot as quickly as possible. Still, he couldn't pry his eyes from the dark, hulking monument to the mental abnormalities of yesteryear. Did they shock people in there? he wondered. Probably, right? What about lobotomies? Hell, yes, probably an entire wing devoted to...

One of the windows on the top floor suddenly glowed yellow. It wasn't a light; more of an orb hovering just behind the glass. Oh, my God. Another popped on behind a fourth floor window, followed rapidly by circular amber glimmers on the third and second floors. John didn't even realize he'd frozen in his tracks until a brilliant beam of light filled in windows of the main doors and they burst open, emitting the unpleasant noise of splintering wood and shattering leaded glass.

Smelling his own fear, a cocktail reminiscent of sour flesh and burnt wire, John willed his brain stem's most primal flee mechanism to kick in. Come on asshole, move! His legs finally stirred, first a labored shuffle, then a forced gallop followed finally by an all-out, panic-fueled sprint. The far hedge was coming into view. Finally.

Any spare wind stored in his diaphragm exited with a sudden gust as the creature's skull drove into John's kidneys. John collapsed and rolled onto his back, grunting hoarsely and sipping in shallow, fruitless gulps of air. Only after he stared into the thing's face and slowly absorbed each ghastly feature, did John realize:

Those clowns know how to tackle.

Here's the interactive part for you guys. At this point, John is probably:

1) Second-guessing himself for taking the shortcut through the abandoned insane asylum.
2) Losing control of key muscles which could prove embarrassing upon his impending encounter with Shirley and the Hancocks.
3) Scared. Also slightly confused about a clown at a mental institution. But mostly scared.
4) All of the above.

Technically, the answer is 4), but 1) describes the most likely scenario had we been asked to choose only one answer.

Are you a second-guesser? I sure am, in fact, pretty much every waking decision I make is second-guessed, and it needs to stop. You'd think that, the older we get, the more confident should be in our first choice being our best choice?

Yeah, apparently not. Here are some personal second guessing instances from a typical day of mine. I'm confident you'll be able to easily tell which ones are worthwhile and which are nothing but the paranoid time-sucks of an OCD-addled brain:

7:48 AM—Coffee isn't for guzzling, period. There's always another bus.

5:17 PM—I shouldn't have tried to jump over the cat.

7:44 PM—I shouldn't have eaten a whole bag of Hot Funyons, especially in the Uber. Now I'm a one-star-rated passenger who feels icky.

8:13 PM—I shouldn't have tried to high-five that man from Bulgaria. I won't elaborate, but now my bottom hurts.

9:09 PM—I knew I should have spent a little more for the name-brand giblets.

See? And that's just one day. Maybe I should heed the example set by our commander-in-chief, yes? Not only does that dude never second-guess himself, he's defends actions he's never even performed.

Okay, hang on. Upon further review, I'd rather be a second-guesser than a lying psychopath.

The Sweat Life.

I glance down at myself as I walk out the door into the crisp morning. It’s been forty minutes since I climbed off the elliptical, yet irregular swatches of perspiration speckle my t-shirt where skin touches fabric, mostly through the midriff. Obviously, the shower didn’t take—again—so I think dry thoughts to stop my carcass from steaming like a doughy hum bow.

I’m a sweater; always have been. I love fall for so many reasons—football, the beautiful local foliage, shopping early for the best deals on Halloween produce and razor blades—but when you’re as prolific a perspirer as I am, the frosty weather soothes those prickly pores like Mother Nature’s Speedstick. 

But whether it’s due to an unusually hot summer or the deepening tick head of manopause, I fear my exterior hydration issue is getting worse. 

Last Thursday was my birthday, so the family and I planned to meet up at our favorite Italian place in downtown Seattle. Coincidentally, earlier that afternoon my employer threw a nice little summer bash down at the waterfront aquarium. Having cake and eating it too was the order of the day, so, after enjoying the company of my co-workers and a few refreshing beverages, I took my leave to climb the hill toward the restaurant on Second Avenue. 

I was first to arrive, and while not having reached the dew point, I was a bit frothy around the dorsal fins. The only available outdoor table sat directly across from the accordion player but what the hell, I thought. I knew a certain family member didn’t enjoy dining al fresco among the traffic, but hey, someone had turned fifty-two years old that day and it wasn’t her.

I won’t rat her out, but when she arrived with the other two, she immediately voiced her contempt for my seat selection. Always one to keep the peace, I acquiesced and agreed to go inside. We followed the host to a pleasant corner table.

Less than thirty seconds after immersing myself in this sweltering, garlic-infused corner, I had already transformed into a human Yellowstone National Park, geysers of murky saline dripping down my neck and filling my ear hoops with appealing liquid color prisms. 

My robust napkin served as my only ally as the people who most loved me glared like I’d just eaten their phones. “Why don’t you go to the bathroom and freshen up?” one of them quipped. “We’ll wait to order.”

I splashed water on my face and neck and returned to the table. By the time the waiter arrived, I was again basting in my own yields. As the young man took our orders, his eyes darted in my direction while my napkin inched one dab at a time toward terminal saturation. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back,” said the waiter. He disappeared around the corner.

The rest of the family, tugged between embarrassment and empathy, stayed cool and dry, as if they’d just emerged from baby powder showers. Bastards. Just as I feared the final life-affirming electrolytes had soaked into my t-shirt, the waiter returned. He carried a very large fan.

Erupting in laughter, my beloved wife and offspring watched as the guy stood it up about three feet away and pointed right at my face. “I always get really hot working back here. This should help both of us,” he offered. For all I cared, he could have told me that I was making the other customers vomit their bruschetta, as long as that fan stayed blowing on my sweaty noggin. “Bless you,” was all I could think of to say in my weakened state.

My birthday dinner progressed nicely from that moment forward. The looks of humor and disgust gradually evaporated from my family’s faces, and by the time the tiramisu arrived, I was dry enough to open presents safely. The accordion player shuffled over to accompany the waiters in an Italian-accented rendition of “Happy Birthday” and the evening ended on a pleasant note.

As I rose from the table and peeled the sticky denim from my hamstrings, my younger daughter put her arm on my shoulder. “Happy birthday, Dad. Eew, you’re still sweaty.”

To Boldly Go Where No Man Has Gone Before.

I'm getting a physical exam tomorrow—first one since 2010.

Yeah, big mystery why I’ve put if off for four years, right? Since turning fifty, I’ve been nothing short of pathological in formulating solid excuses for not walking the two blocks for a checkup:

a) I have to lose some weight first. The scales are out in a common area of the doctor's office, like between the paper cutter and master sharps bin. Everyone in the vicinity can hear your weight barked out by the nurse, so this time I'm giving her two choices—she either weighs me naked like I'm accustomed to, or she steps on the scales for some reciprocal humiliation in my best Don Pardo voice.

Here’s another idea for the nice folks at the clinic: how about we meet in the lunchroom around noon with a karaoke mic and the doctor can announce that I have the BMI of nacho cheese lasagna?

b) I know women’s exams are more invasive than men’s, but I’m still a quivering wimpster when it comes to the hidden finger wag. I’m always worried that I’ll do something involuntary, like giggle or tilt my head. 

c) Since I’m of an age, I’m not highly delighted about receiving input from this fella:

Does the gloved hand seems hostile to you? It mocks me.

It could be worse, though. I've heard that the older models were made of wood and powered by gerbils.

Seriously, I need to stop whining about some temporary discomfort and just be glad I've got the means and access to quality preventative health care. 

How long is that thing, anyway? Please tell me that pressure gauge or whatever it is, pulls over before entering the express lanes.

It’s time to be an adult—an older adult in fact; no more procrastinating, no more lame excuses. The asstronauts are sipping Tang, pre-flighting for their Journey to the Center of the Land of the Lost. 

Please bring them home safely.

Get Away From Me, Freak!

I hope you don't mind, but it's time to sound like an old guy. 

Please read on, though, because a lot of you are also old, and if you aren't, this could prove useful. It doesn't hurt to look ahead a little, because as our good friend Russ Wilson likes to say, "The separation is in the preparation."

At age twenty-one, a lot of us would've proven grossly incapable of predicting our lifestyles thirty years down life's unpaved road. I'm pretty sure if I hopped into the DeLorean, sped back to 1984 and asked a certain college junior for a couple of prognostications, it would be clear where the term "shallow pond" was derived. 

Here's what I mean:

So, twenty-one-year-old Tim, what type of car do you picture yourself driving in thirty years?

Wow, that's a long time. That's totally after the year 2000, right? 

Yes, that would be 2014.

Hell, then, I don’t know. It won't be an American car or a minivan, that's for sure. A moped would be sweet, or one of those new Camaros.

Right, but they won't be new in thirty years.

This is boring.

Okay, well, just to let you know, you will In fact drive a minivan. It will be manufactured in Korea, and your daughter will call it "Kiath."

That's bizarre. I'm having a daughter?

Yes, two, actually.

I don't want two daughters. How old are they?

One is a college freshman and the other is in eighth grade.

Listen, man, my fraternity is having a party tonight and I'm pretty sure there will be a few freshman girls hanging out. Thanks for making me think of them as my daughters, ass wipe. I must rise above this. 

Hang on a sec, I need to turn down the stereo. It's hard not to crank Sister Christian on these sweet woofers I just got from Speakerlab. You like Night Ranger, old man?

Yes.

Hey! You're not as crusty as you look.  What else did you want to ask me? I need to run down to 7-11 for some Copenhagen.

Okay, I'll be quick. How about cooking—who will do most of the cooking for your family in thirty years?

I don't know, man. It might just be like the Jetsons where you just push a button and boom—piping hot lasagna. But if that's not the case, if my wife cooks four nights a week, I don't mind ordering pizza the other three. My kids would appreciate it, I'm sure. Gross, did I just say "my wife" and "my kids" in the same sentence? Freaking shoot me.

What if I told you that you'll be the primary grocery shopper and cook for your family? How about if your wife is a fifth grade teacher who works harder than Chris Christie's heart?

Who's Chris Christie? That's a stupid name.

It doesn't matter. You just need to know that your wife will be such a dedicated educator that a couple of times, you'll wonder if she's actually spending an hour before school and three afterward, playing 21 Jump Street with Johnny Depp.

Who's Johnny Depp? That's a stupid name.

Well, he's merely the love of your wife's life, a youthful bad-boy actor who smells of Lucky Strikes and pieces of eight. 

Huh?

Never mind. Listen, I'll let you go, but here's some more food for thought. You've actually gotten a couple of recipes from a naked guy at the YMCA.

What? What's wrong with you?

Sorry, let me explain. You'll often see this guy in the locker room after your morning workout.

Hey, man, the words "morning" and "workout" should never be used together.

Anyway, he's into cooking and he's usually naked when relating recipes to you. You're occasionally nude as well.

Holy shit. Time for you to leave, Uncle Perverick. What the hell recipe did this wanker give you—pulled pork?

Umm, well, yes.

Get your ass out of my bean bag chair and hit the street before I grab my numchucks, got me?

Will do. Take care, clueless colt.

That didn't go well. Hopefully after this experiment, you won't hate yourself like I apparently do.

Crap. Does This Mean I'm an Old Man?

Today, I'm asking for your assistance.

You, the loyal reader, the benevolent soul who has kindly carved out a smidge of his or her busy docket to read my anemic diatribes.

You, the compassionate peruser, who has chosen to ingest my drivel while sitting on the porcelain perch after finally growing weary of studying the contents of every Tylenol PM and Kleenex box within reach.

Yeah, you.

I need you to help me decide whether my recent behavior is the direct result of aging, or merely a by product of a changing familial dynamic.

For as long I can remember, I've been  driving my thirteen-year-old daughter to school every Friday morning, stopping on the way to hook her up with a breakfast of questionable integrity. While, for many school years, her meal of choice was an Assiago cheese bagel and chocolate milk, she's now elevated her tastes to more processed fare. 

That's why we now stop at 7-Eleven instead of Safeway.

This morning, I looked over at her as she eased herself into the Hyundai. Carefully avoiding any oil puddles or gum wads on the convenience store's well-trodden asphalt, she gingerly clutched her meal of choice—a protein bar with a side of hot chocolate with a side of mini marshmallows.

Engulfed within the car's dull interior, she sparkled. Her hair fell in loose ringlets over a white sweater, a sky blue tank top peaking out to closely match her glittery blue TOMS flats and compliment her indigo skinny jeans. As I merged the dirty sedan onto West Seattle's main drag, she looked over at me, betraying lines of sparkly something-or-other across her eyelids. 

She was freaking impeccable.

She sipped her cocoa. "I forgot to brush my teeth today."

"How can you forget to brush your teeth? That's a basic morning thing," I said.

"Okay, just kidding. I decided not to brush my teeth."

"Gross. Why?"

"Because my toothpaste has a slight orange taste and I didn't want it to interfere with the hot chocolate or the mint of the protein bar."

"Interfere?" I asked. "Doesn't the flavor wear off after a few minutes? Now your going to school with a nasty mouth."

"I don't care."

I believed her.

"Aren't you worried that someone will notice?"

"No."

Again, I believed her.

"Okay, I'm just curious, though," I said. "How can you spend forty-five minutes and be so meticulous with your outfit and hair and everything, but not practice basic hygiene?"

"Brushing teeth isn't basic hygiene, Dad."

She argues with everything my wife and I say. Seriously, everything. My newly–minted teenage daughter has even debated the year my wife was born—with my wife. 

We finally just decided to nod our heads, say "Hmmm" and allow her egregious misstatements to evaporate into the ozone like a rusty can of old Aquanet. Not worth it.

And that leads to the question about my own behavior. With all the pregnant silences that have resulted from my kid's cockamamie outbursts, I've been trying to fill in the gaps. The problem is, I sound like a crusty old man. I'll bring up the weather, or the traffic, or how those cherry tomatoes we ate last night were closer to plums than cherries and I think I slept weird on my neck because its really stiff.

Not only have I been boring my family silly with idle idioms and mundane musings, I've been boring myself. Is this as good as it's going to get? Should I just resign myself, when in the presence of my family, to discuss nothing more interesting than the kid I saw littering at the bus stop or how or how expensive Scott's Turf Builder is?

Maybe it's time to buy a Corvette…

Some Call It Grumpy. I Call It Righteous.

5:30 AM.

I awakened feeling slightly indignant about the premature jolt into consciousness, yet somewhere deep within my aging sack of meat, grateful for another day spent above earth's mossy peat pile.

And while a lot of us roll out of the sack with our senses muted and dormant, still numb from the Sandman's double-wrapped sleep condom, I swung my toasty toes onto the cold hardwoods, again feeling instantly vulnerable to the slightest sensory assault.

Which is why my gym and me may not be such a compatible match.

I slammed the locker and glanced at myself in the mirror before heading to the aerobic area. Not good. During the night, my hair had wadded into swirly little islands, as if the remaining strands had gathered to seek comfort among the others who'd been left behind during these follicular End Times.

Doing my best to even out my unsightly pate, I shuffled into the cardio room, a cramped bandbox which formerly served as a church basement. Ample headroom surely existed when the structure was originally built for hosting five-foot people who sat on folding chairs and ate macaroni salad, but the strapping athletes who currently inhabited the space commanded a significantly higher ceiling to accommodate their frothy exhalations of carbon dioxide.

Since only two exercisers are required to thicken the air and cloud the windows, the three treadmill runners and one rower gave the room the bouquet of a dorm room the morning after Taco Bell Garlic Gordita Value Meal Night.

Seriously, when I walked into that sweaty cave at the Y this morning, I swear the pH balance matched the atmosphere of Uranus and one of the joggers was actually a streptococcus bacterium that had grown legs.

Overcome with the moist essence of human exertion, I strode over to a window to release some of the greenhouse gasses into the Seattle ozone before commencing my workout. I cracked the window, felt the relief of a cool draft against my cheek, and retreated to an unoccupied elliptical trainer.

"Excuse me!"

I turned. Scowling down at me from his Stairmaster stood a man roughly my age. "Would you mind closing that? It's very chilly in here."

Holy shit, I thought. Since when was eighty degrees and one hundred percent humidity considered chilly? What is this guy, my grandma? "Um, can I leave it open just a little? See how the windows are fogged up?"

"I suppose," he crabbily barked. He may or may not have realized he was scratching his crotch as he said this.

I returned to the window and decreased its opening from two inches to one. Our eyes met once more, and although he still appeared unsatisfied, I ignored it. Whatever, I surmised. Apparently, this dude hasn't had his Cap'n Crunch, Now With Xanax Berries yet. Crabby old bastard.

Mounting the elliptical, I breathed deeply and set the machine for thirty minutes. I balanced myself and cleared my head. Then I realized what had just happened:

The encounter which had just transpired was not just with a grumpy old man. It was an exchange between two grumpy old men.

Sweet Jehovah, when did this happen? As a younger guy, I'd always told myself that as I aged, my burgeoning wisdom would cultivate tolerance and understanding; I'd grow in my zen-like patience and acceptance of others. My flexibility would carve out a dwelling as deep as the wrinkly lines on my sagging bottom.

Um yeah, obviously not.

Last week, a woman sat in front of me on the bus, digging at something so deeply on the back of her scalp, I thought that any minute her middle finger might emerge from her eye socket. I watched her with laser focus, burning slowly with a blue ire.  Her behavior consumed me whole. Finally, I snapped out of my trance long enough to tell myself, Dude, just ignore it. You won't acquire HIV from some lady scratching her head. Just read your damn book.

I couldn't let it go. I maniacally fantasized of things I wanted to say, like, "You know what? Whatever it is you're trying to accomplish with your fingernail obviously isn't working. But it's your lucky day, because Safeway is having a sale on cheese graters so take my club card, stop spreading your toxic dander to everyone here and get the hell off this freaking motor coach!" The crowd would erupt as I lobbed my parting shot, "Come back when you're ready to never come back, Typhoid Mary!"

Didn't say any of it, though. At least there's still a little filter there.

It just seems like I used to be so much more patient with things like kids and restaurants and other drivers. And I suppose acknowledging it is the first step toward recovery, right?

Now please stop sniffing and blow your nose, already.

Welcome back, 2012.

Hello, 2012. Or, should I say, "Welcome back."

For many of us, it's our first day back—to work, to school, to daycare, back to pants which fit better on the last day before the first day of the vacation which led up to the first day back.

Huh?

Naturally, the first day coming back to something isn't quite like a day where we begin something brand new.

That first September day of school can be nerve-wracking, yet exciting—new clothes, new classmates, occasionally new facial hair or other body parts which can lead to shock and dismay in the locker room.

At a new job, day one is also exhilarating, yet the information onslaught prohibits our ability to process much. We return home knowing how to look busy with nothing to do, where the bathrooms are and that we'll never again have lunch with that guy Bob who brings to the restaurant his own jar of chipotle mayonnaise.

I'm not sure what the initial day of prison is like, but it's got to be similar to a sorority rush, with diverse social groups vying for your affection, the relentless pressure to always look pretty and all that throwing up after meals.

So, as I mentioned, today is not a first day—it's a first day back—to work, to the gym, and to most of us, to a life of reacquainting ourselves with behaviors which don't encourage an early demise.

It's a return to earth from the festival of lard and sugar which commenced with Halloween, a two-month orgy which begins with seven or eight fun-sized Kit Kats and ends with one supersized...me.

Awakening this morning in the predawn darkness for the first time in ten days, I stumbled out of bed, threw on some shorts and dragged my rotting carcass to the gym.

I mounted the elliptical trainer with an enthusiasm equal to sliding into a dental recliner and tuned my portable radio to the sports talk station. By the time the morning host's voice grasped control of the airwaves, I had gained some valuable knowledge from the advertisers:

My excess belly fat places me at considerable risk of heart attack and stroke, so I should buy this supplement to halt this lurking danger.

My advancing age puts me in substantial peril of decreased libido, increased fatigue and magic eight ball-sized man melons, so I should buy these pills to differentiate my testosterone level from that of a female kitten.

My intelligence and affluent station in society position me in need of a luxury automobile, so I should buy this car and screw the first two products.

As I worked my aging body into an anaerobic lather, I resolved to do none of the above. I'm not going to start something new, I'm simply returning to something that's been there all along.

I'm pretty sure it's in there somewhere.

Giving in to breaking out.

A lot of stuff happens as we age.

I realize that's no breaking news flash, and most of it I can grudgingly accept, if I cling to a philosophical approach using geographical analogies.

Hair which once sprouted from the top of my head has apparently retired and relocated to warmer, more southerly regions. I've accepted this, and I'm not anticipating a return home, even to visit relatives for the holidays.

My lower back has experienced a series of civil wars, rendering the area virtually lawless, its day-to-day stability hinging on the teetering tribal alliances of corrupt warlords. Humanitarian deliveries of Vicodin, physical therapy and muscle relaxants have secured a tense détente, yet after decades of turmoil, scar tissue litters the horizon.

The luring brothel that is my gastrointestinal tract beckons the unwitting tourist. Bacon cheeseburgers, pepperoni pizzas and deep fried butter slabs line the seedy bars and dark alleyways. Once the transaction is consummated and morning's light illuminates the filthy truth, not even a Pepcid/TUMS power cocktail can stave off the inevitable.

Okay, enough with the talk of Arizona, Sudan and Bangkok. Here's an annoyance I can't abide:

Acne. I still get it.

What the hell? I still wake up, stumble into the bathroom, gaze into the mirror and spot Mount St. Helens, lava dome and all, growing on the side of my nose.

At least when I was a kid, I had a full head of hair, a strong back and a thin body to distract myself from the festering pustules littering my teenscape. Plus, the acne followed certain covenants—face and back only, with occasional rogue tenancy within a nostril or under an eyebrow. I actually had to sit out a band practice once due to a lip zit which rendered trumpet playing highly painful and futile.

I was pretty embarrassed. The band director looked puzzled when I told him, yet didn't question my injury, which was kind of nice of him.

Now, I don't get wicked clusters of them like I used to, but I'll find one on my forearm or between a couple of fingers...even inside my ear. Seriously? I had no idea the insides of our ears had pores. Inside-the-ear skin always seemed more like a tarp over some cardboard, where substances just glance off.

I'm forty-nine years old, and people my age with pimples are as out of place as a dog in a halter top. Wait, I saw one of those at the beach yesterday. You know what I mean.

The human body needs some tighter rules regarding phasing out one class of blemish prior to introducing a new unsightly attribute. On second thought, maybe I'm just being unreasonable; maybe I should embrace these tiny imperfections, possibly even name them.

I think I'll call this one on the tip of my nose "Rush."