Oh, how things change

The human body is really quite remarkable, you know. It appears to go through some type of metamorphosis as we age. In the male of the species, that with which I am intimately knowledgeable, and rather, genetically speaking, prepared to discuss…and will do so ad nauseum.

The world seems to have done a 180 degree turn in terms of the weight of all children, male and female. Whereas today’s problem appears to be one of obesity among the young (and others), at the time I was in my prepubescent state, the situation appeared to be exactly the opposite, i.e., “How the hell do we put some meat on those goddamned bones. I found him/her hiding behind a sapling for Christ’s sake!” or words to that effect. Oh sure, there were a few of us – not me – who experienced being called “Fatso” or some other derogatory term. I would add that those so christened did not immediately disappear into their sanctum sanctorum only to emerge with bandoliers of ammunition, an AK-47 in one hand and twin .45s on his hips and take out half the school. If he or she in some cases was really pissed, they might deck the skinny kid with the run-off mouth or perhaps throw him to the ground and sit on him to test his breathing skills, but retaliation was rarely violent and never as drastic as the shit that’s going down today.

Through puberty, high school, and even perhaps college, many of us continued to appear much as we had in our formative years. Others stayed as they were by joining the armed forces or immediately entering the work force but, by and large, we remained as we were. For many of us male-types, college meant finding “her.” We’d probably had our hearts shattered, figuratively speaking, many times along the road of life, but “she” was the one we had all been seeking. In my own case, it was somewhat serendipitous, in that it was the accident of college that led me to “her.” While I was not preparing to become a teacher, it was my second minor concentration and I had the opportunity to teach at my old high school. I was struck by cupid’s arrow the minute I saw her sitting in the teacher’s room, cigarette in hand. By the following summer we were marching down the aisle, all six feet, three inches, 145 pounds of me standing next to the woman of my dreams.

I don’t really know if it’s marriage or parenthood or whatever, but suddenly and in a subtle manner, my physiognomy began to change. My waistline, once in the teens, immediately expanded to late twenties, early thirties. My hairline began to create runways on either side of center. Small aches and pains began to become more prevalent and with an increase in intensity…hmm, is this what adulthood is all about?

A daughter and a son and now we’re done became something of an error when four years after we thought our family was complete, another daughter came into our lives. I really don’t believe our lives were complete, and I must give thanks to the Lord above for blessing us with this crazy bundle of joy. Raising kids is, I swear, an additional cause for the waistline to swell; the hair to further recede, and the heart to pound its way into myocardial infarction. Having lived through three of these episodes and with five stents now assisting blood flow, I do speak with authority on this subject.

Let no one throw at you that old saw that goes, “With age comes wisdom;” I am a great believer that with age comes oldness…wisdom may come along for the ride but trust me, old is old. I am now two inches shorter than when I was married. I am also better than 100 pound heavier; my head is shaved, and getting into bed at night and out in the morning is an effort 365 days a year…oh, except in a leap year when it’s 366 days. Both knees have been surgically repaired; rotator cuffs in each shoulder have been ‘fixed;’ three back operations have resulted in five self-fused lumbar vertebrae, and I have had surgery to hands, feet, and just about everything else in my body.

Today, however, I am facing the trial of my life. I must, once more, at the age of 81, subject myself to the surgeon’s scalpel. It is permissible to quote, “If you don’t use it, you’ll lose it here,” but that would be rather tacky. You see, although circumcision took place at an early age, it would appear that the foreskin of the penis has grown over the poor little fella making it both difficult and painful to discard sugar, et al, though the process of urination. I know; I know, we’re getting a bit personal here, but there is a certain humor in this entire chapter of my life. Whereas doctors have terms for damn near every surgical procedure under the sun, nothing has been put forth for this particular operation. My surgeon has informed me that it’s not uncommon at all for this to happen in older people – good luck to all you kids in your 60s and 70s; something else you may have to look forward to – and it’s a rather simple procedure. Not wanting to go into this thing blind, I have been pondering appropriate nomenclature for this particular ‘snip.’ To date, I have come up with “circum,” since it isn’t another complete circumcision; penisectomy, which sounds much too technical and is not in keeping with the manner in which I’m viewing this ‘cut.’ I have decided that it has come down to a choice between “dickectomy” which is appealing because it incorporates my name with what others have been calling me for years, or “peckerectomy,” which I must admit has a certain degree of flair.  Should you feel that I have yet to hit on the correct term for my upcoming (hmmm) in by 9; out  by 5 event, please feel free to comment.