Dear Age


Dear Age,
I think it's time we had a serious talk. Don't think I haven't noticed what you've been up to. I've noticed, and it's time to call you on it.

I didn't mind so much when you first showed up and decided it would take much longer to recover from a 5K run without any training - that's fair.

But when you showed up again to give me headaches from really good red wine, that was just mean. But maybe you were right and I needed to temper my intake - I deferred and took a "wait and see" approach.

And then the bullshit with the Portuguese mustache started, ever so slightly, one more little black hair at at time. Black hair on my upper lip, as you started replacing the brown hair on my head with pigment-less, wiry grey hair, you tricky bitch.

And all the little things that are just annoying - you clearly have time on your side to come up with crap like this - my knees sound like crunching potato chips when I go up and down stairs; if I stay up too late too often, I'm shredded for days afterward; and one of your cruelest tricks, the ease of which I can be hungover from just two drinks if I haven't eaten enough or drink the wrong thing. An entire morning can be lost while you sit back, laughing at me.

Well, missy, fine. You have your job to do, and I guess I have mine. I'll continue to dress like a 15-year-old boy - I don't care how many years you slap on me. I'll continue to drive a little too fast for road conditions. And I'll keep running 5K races with little or no training, because I still can. I have pain relievers that make you look like an ass.

So what I'm saying is, you need to back the eff off for a while - I get it. I'm not 17 anymore. You've made that painfully clear. Go bother someone else for a few years. So, do we have an understanding? Don't make me get the Jack Lalane juicer and go all aggro on your ass.