Monday, July 14, 2003

Broken down

When I was young and stupid -- and here I'm referring to adolescence, not three or four weeks ago -- I complained loudly and often that I could not gain weight, no matter what I ate. (If you have reached the age of majority, this is a hanging offense, according to the traditions of gay frontier justice.)

But I was a skinny squirt, usually characterized as "scrawny", with knobby knees, pencil-thin arms and the cliché Coke bottle specs. I did not, in short, have the most positive body image. Unlike most teenagers, of course. Yes, I suffered thusly alone.

Each time I would grouse that I was constitutionally unable to add some bulk to my beanpole, my mother would sigh and chuckle. "Just wait until you turn 30," she'd say. "You'll wish you couldn't gain weight. Your body'll go to hell." I thought she was kidding at first but, gradually, I came to believe her.

I didn't realize she meant it would happen that day.

But, sure enough, practically on the hour of my 30th birthday, my heretofore unsullied face broke out in all sorts of interesting patterns, I noticed my first gray hairs and I seemed to have developed a paunch that, if necessary, could be used as a flotation device.

All of these I have taken in stride even if, as a glance around any beach or poolside will confirm, a convex belly on an otherwise gaunt frame is hardly the beauty ideal. That's OK. I never wanted or expected to be beautiful.

I did hope, as I moved into the prime of my life, at least to be ambulatory.

And I always suspected that'd be the case, although it seems like every day I'm waking up with a new cramp, creak or wound that wasn't there the day before. The latest is situated in my left knee, perfectly fine one moment and then OW! OW! SEARING PAIN! KILL ME NOW! KILL! ME! NOW!!

It's probably nothing.

On the other hand, I'm not alone with my aches and pains. Get a group of my 30-something friends together and we sound like a group of geezers one-upping each other over Jell-O and strained peas. Slipped discs, ulcers, early-onset arthritis, bursitis, ligaments and cartilege a-go-go. We are Generation X: The Walking Wounded.

My saving grace is my perhaps over-developed sense of schadenfreude, employed as a coping mechanism whereby I watch the lithe, practically undernourished twinks on the dance floor, at the gym, in the park, and I mumble to myself, in further affirmation that I am inexorably becoming my mother, "Just wait until you turn 30. Your body'll go to hell."

And then I cackle merrily, turn and walk aw--OW! OW! SEARING PAIN! KILL ME NOW! KILL! ME! NOW!!