Forty Blows.

It has been said that “Life begins at forty!” It is in my experience that whatever jerk started that catchphrase was only 2/3rds correct. This is how it should read:

“Life begins TO SUCK at forty!”

I hate being a 40-year old. There is nothing magical about this new decade. Forty is the number that is the combination to the door of a torture chamber. I can’t think of anything good to say about being this old. Some of you that are older than me might chime in and offer perspective by saying things like “It could be worse, you could be _________ . Whatever. Don’t try to talk me down off of my ledge. I can assure you that there is nothing about being forty that is better than being a 50 or 60 year old. 40 is the year when the clock strikes midnight and the party is coming to an end. This is the worst age to be. Here is why:

The Forty Blows List
(Volume 1)

1) If I don’t want lucid dreams that may or may not involve me being the love slave of Grace Jones and Sam Elliot it means that I can’t have one ounce of caffeine after 7:30 p.m. If I even smell a cup of coffee my normally sweet and innocent R.E.M. cycle is interrupted by the horrible sound of my shrieking as I am being fed to a three headed shark by my old algebra teacher. What is it about being 40 that has alter my neurological system so much that can allow storylines like this to be produced by my psyche after I have a sip of delicious roasted coffee? Recently I confided with somebody about my lucid dreaming that kicks in after I consume some nighttime caffeinated beverage. They told me that maybe I should switch to de-caffeinated coffee. I am now awaiting trial for the murder of the person who suggested that.

2) I no longer get to click on the 25-39 age bracket box on most forms I fill out. The box I now check is usually 40-55. You know who is 55? Tom Arnold is 55. So is Linda Blair. Am I suppossed to be okay with being put in a catergory that includes people of that advanced age? Well, I’m not. I want a new box to check.

18-25 ()

26-39 ()

40-42 Only for special people who don’t want to feel like they are being judged just because their skin has stared to leather a bit. This box is for folks who will not be defined by society despite the face that they can sometimes hear ringing in their ears. Those who check this box are still satisfactory lovers who hardly ever require the assistance of prescription drugs. (*)

40-55 ()

Don’t put me in a box, bro.

3) Now that I’m 40 I have found myself muttering 800 % more than I ever have before. I mutter at the TV. I mutter at the radio. I mutter at pop-up ads on my computer. Sometimes I even mutter at myself which makes me think I have a multiple personality disorder.

“Oh great, it’s raining.” I said. “I know. I hate rain.” I replied to myself. “I should buy an umbrella.” Yes, yes we should.” I said. Suddenly I grew nervous. “Wait. Did you just say we?” I asked. “I did, precious. I did say we….Gollum. Gollum.” I said in a whisper.

Yesterday I was even muttering at the newspaper. Which of course leads to #4…

4) I STILL READ THE NEWSPAPER!!!!!!!!!!! In fact I’m finding myself seeking out a newspaper option over reading something electronically. This definitely makes me feel like I’m 40. You don’t see cool 30-year olds reading a paper. They are too cool for that. I’m stuck with my smudgy hands gripping the sides of a crinkly paper while trying to see who I know has made it into the daily obituary. Yes…I read the obits….shit….I can’t believe I just realized I do that.

5) I’m addicted to wearing Old Spice. I can’t stop it. My dad wore Old Spice. I want to buy some Axe body spray and got to a rave but my body won’t let me. I want to smell like a pool boy – but I end up having the scent of Matlock after a long day of solving crimes and snapping my suspenders. Help me. Please….

6) My kids have picked up on the fact that I hate being 40. They keep asking me what it was like to be alive during The Civil War. My youngest this morning inquired how I felt watching The Universe be created. They all laughed and giggled to themselves. I smiled, walked into my bedroom closet, covered myself in Ben Gay and sobbed.

7) I never get carded any more. Ever. I want to be carded. I’m not The Crypt Keeper!!! How can all of the food servers I encounter be some judgmental?? Maybe my 25-year old forehead is wrinkled because of all of the pot I smoke in my parents basement. Have they considered that all the popping and cracking sounds that are coming out of my body whenever I shift in my chair is not due to my age, but rather because I just got done with an MMA fight? That would also explain why I can’t stop sweating.

8) My bladder of steel is rusting. A couple nights ago I woke up at 3:00 a.m and found myself shuffling toward the bathroom. What in the holy hell was going on! I sent a message to my bladder asking it to explain itself. It responded by saying “You have 30 seconds to handle this or I will”. That seemed like blackmail. “I don’t negotiate with terrorists!” I exclaimed. (or muttered I guess…) In hindsight wish I would have negotiated….

9) I wake up every morning to find that in the course of the evening I have undergone some sort of physical alteration. I don’t even have to look in the mirror to get confirmation that this is taking place. I just have to roll over and look at my wife who confirms this has happened by the horrified expression on her face.


I don’t need to go in graphic detail about what physical transformations are taking place with me. I will only say that at some point I’m going to start combing my ear hair.

10) I can’t remember that I was going to write here. Oh crap….that is another thing I hate. I can’t remember anything. What are you talking about? I have children?? Are you serious? I’m not wearing pants here at Wal-Mart? A lot of people are forgiving about my lack of memory. The IRS is being a bunch of poop-heads, though.

This is an on going list that I’m going to update over time. I would keep writing, but I have to go to the bathroom for the 13th time this morning. Right, John? Right! Let’s go to the Bathroom, my precious….


One Response

  1. Dot
    Dot at | | Reply

    I’m 52. You just wait. bTW- you are crazy! :)

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