Monday, July 24, 2006
Life begins at Forty (My Arse!)
They say life begins at forty. Nobody, however, says who “they” actually are. I have my suspicions. For a start they can’t actually have made it as far as two score otherwise they’d know they’re talking complete cock, or if they have they most certainly are of the older, disillusioned variety, probably smelling equally of whisky and wee, dribbling ever so slightly down their rosy red faces with a misty far away look of reminiscence in there eyes as they contemplate days gone by ; “Ah, yes, forty I remember it well * hic * life certainly started for me then * slurp, burp * got made redundant from my 100K job and haven’t worked since * splosh, slurp, burp * oh yes, I certainly found out what life was all about then I can tell you….”
Life, let me tell you, from 40 on sucks. If you’ve been lucky enough to keep your hair, well now look forward to it going grey. If people have always told you “you don’t look your age” you can kiss that one good-bye too; if not coz the iron-grey tresses you’ll be sporting but the express paced, sagging, wrinkle fest that is the part of the general southbound movement of all your external body parts. Plus the rather ironically named “laughter lines” apperaring. Well you can fuck right off coz they certainly haven’t been caused by laughing I can tell you. And Crow’s feet. Well, there’s an attractive image.
Another great myth about being forty is that it’s just another number. Bollocks it is. It’s the difference between being one of the office “lads” and being and old pervert. At thirty something it’s ok to flirt with the girls in the office, engage in innuendo filled banter, ogle pert arses and even perkier breasts and possibly even cop an alcohol fuelled grope at the office do. No worries, Way-Hey!! One of the boys. But do anything after forty and you’re suddenly classed as a dirty old man.
And woe betide any man or woman who reaches forty without a ring on their finger. They’re suddenly classed as either gay or, if a man, irredeemably tied to their mother’s apron strings, or if a woman, frigid, ugly and completely beyond redemption; a life of poor quality knitwear, Horlicks and Barbra Cartland novels being the only comfort on the long, cold and lonely road to eventual senility. For the lucky ones at least.
Of course most of us think that a bit of “healthy living” will keep us as young and spry as when we were mere thirtysomethings. Bah, not a bit of it. As a runner I’ve had to cope with the knowledge that every year past thirty I lose 1% of my aerobic fitness. I managed to come to terms with that and can pretty much say I run as well today as I did back then, even if recovery seems harder. But now at forty my body’s ever accelerating rush to self-destruction kicks up a gear with the great news that I’ll lose between 0.5 and 2% of my muscle volume annually from now on. The chances of turning my winter reserves into a summer six pack grow harder by the second. There is a solution however. It is, according to the experts, protein. Keep you diet high in that, they say and the wasting effects of simply being alive can be held at bay. Fine. Knowing however the effect that protein has on most old people I’ll pass on that thank you. Plus the fact that by the time I get my pension, which obviously isn’t that long now, that a nice juicy steak will be well out of my price range. The only cheap protein left will be peanuts and eggs and, well, you don’t need any diagrams from me.
I might as well take a good long look at my feet now coz very soon I’ll only have a fond memory of what they look like. As someone who was naturally thin until I hit thirty, it came as a nasty surprise that the simple act of eating a cream cake suddenly made me gain weight, it has come as an even greater shock that now I’m forty I’ll never be able to lose it again either.
I won't put up with this though. The fight starts here. Marathons, bike rides, gym the works, I will not just sit back and let mother nature make me a fat old bastard. So stay tuned to see what happens......
Life, let me tell you, from 40 on sucks. If you’ve been lucky enough to keep your hair, well now look forward to it going grey. If people have always told you “you don’t look your age” you can kiss that one good-bye too; if not coz the iron-grey tresses you’ll be sporting but the express paced, sagging, wrinkle fest that is the part of the general southbound movement of all your external body parts. Plus the rather ironically named “laughter lines” apperaring. Well you can fuck right off coz they certainly haven’t been caused by laughing I can tell you. And Crow’s feet. Well, there’s an attractive image.
Another great myth about being forty is that it’s just another number. Bollocks it is. It’s the difference between being one of the office “lads” and being and old pervert. At thirty something it’s ok to flirt with the girls in the office, engage in innuendo filled banter, ogle pert arses and even perkier breasts and possibly even cop an alcohol fuelled grope at the office do. No worries, Way-Hey!! One of the boys. But do anything after forty and you’re suddenly classed as a dirty old man.
And woe betide any man or woman who reaches forty without a ring on their finger. They’re suddenly classed as either gay or, if a man, irredeemably tied to their mother’s apron strings, or if a woman, frigid, ugly and completely beyond redemption; a life of poor quality knitwear, Horlicks and Barbra Cartland novels being the only comfort on the long, cold and lonely road to eventual senility. For the lucky ones at least.
Of course most of us think that a bit of “healthy living” will keep us as young and spry as when we were mere thirtysomethings. Bah, not a bit of it. As a runner I’ve had to cope with the knowledge that every year past thirty I lose 1% of my aerobic fitness. I managed to come to terms with that and can pretty much say I run as well today as I did back then, even if recovery seems harder. But now at forty my body’s ever accelerating rush to self-destruction kicks up a gear with the great news that I’ll lose between 0.5 and 2% of my muscle volume annually from now on. The chances of turning my winter reserves into a summer six pack grow harder by the second. There is a solution however. It is, according to the experts, protein. Keep you diet high in that, they say and the wasting effects of simply being alive can be held at bay. Fine. Knowing however the effect that protein has on most old people I’ll pass on that thank you. Plus the fact that by the time I get my pension, which obviously isn’t that long now, that a nice juicy steak will be well out of my price range. The only cheap protein left will be peanuts and eggs and, well, you don’t need any diagrams from me.
I might as well take a good long look at my feet now coz very soon I’ll only have a fond memory of what they look like. As someone who was naturally thin until I hit thirty, it came as a nasty surprise that the simple act of eating a cream cake suddenly made me gain weight, it has come as an even greater shock that now I’m forty I’ll never be able to lose it again either.
I won't put up with this though. The fight starts here. Marathons, bike rides, gym the works, I will not just sit back and let mother nature make me a fat old bastard. So stay tuned to see what happens......
# posted by Bucko! @ 5:39 AM 
