34 to 45 - the down-hill struggle

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I don't like being 45 - really.


It's so… so… middle isn't it?

Us 45ers have a rough deal if you ask me:-  We can't be excused for being old and cranky, and neither can we get away with being young and whimsical. 


We're just stuck in the middle.


And 45 has really changed over the years, hasn't it.  I clearly remember that when I was in my teens, 45 was absolutely ancient!  When I was at school a friend of mine (I won't mention his name as his parole officer AND the proprietors of 'Harare Liquorama' are still looking for him) came to me, obviously quite upset.
“My Dad's had like a heart problem, like he's in hospital, China*!” he said, as we puffed away behind the bike sheds. (*Please note: His dad wasn't in hospital in China  'China' was the current slang for 'Mate' or Bro'  - Methinks from the Cockney Rhyming Slang 'My Mate, my China Plate')
“Hey no, China!” I said, lighting up the third 'Mad Dog' (Madison Toasted cigarette) for that particular break time  (I was EXCEPTIONALLY cool in those days) “Like, how old is he?”
“Cheesh, I dunno for sure, China, but he's quite an old top, I think my mom told the doc he was, like, 45.”
“Ahhhh,” I said, nodding knowingly in that professional-medical-practitioner sort of way.  I put my arm around his shoulder, almost setting his felt school hat on fire with my cigarette end.
 “Well China - at least he's had a good innings…But hey, it was so nice getting to know him… Do you think you'll get his Yamaha 350?”


That's how old 45 was then.


But now it certainly isn't an OLD sort of age at all, is it? It is more of, well, a non-age. Like being in no-mans land? 


In fact if 45 has any memorable features at all, it will be recorded as the year your body forgets to communicate with itself. It is the year that your brain continues to believe you can do anything, but forgets to send that memo to the rest of your body. 


Really. 


For example: I KNOW I can skateboard.  Of course I can!  After all, in my late teens/ early twenties I used to skateboard to work and back EVERY DAY. I was the Skateboard KING. And of course it's like riding a bicycle (except it's much smaller and waaaaaay cooler);- Something I will always be able to do, right up until the day I 'tick tack' over the half-pipe of life into my grave (which I have estimated will be sometime in the latter half of this century). 


Of course over the years I have proven this theory again and again.  After a three year break from skateboarding at 24, I tried it again at 27, then at 32, at 36 and finally once again at 40.  And each time, all those awesome moves came back to me, like old friends after a lottery win.   I was still the Skateboard King. (Admittedly the last attempt was at three in the morning after a particularly good New years Eve, and there was a slight altercation with a step, a poorly placed rosebush and a wheel barrow, but even then the swelling went down fairly quickly, and Mrs Ed has almost full use of her left arm now)


But at 45? 


Somehow… It…. Just… Doesn't…. Work!


I tried.  The darn, stupid board just keeps going all over the place, and I end up on the floor with both my coccyx and pride more than a little bruised.


How scary is that?  Somewhere between forty and forty five I lost my Skateboard Mojo.


And now, as if 45 hasn't done enough damage, it has gone one step worse. In fact 100 steps worse. 


45 stole my 34.


Not my age 34 - I knew that went yonks ago.  It's my …. Well, quite embarrassing really, but the waist size of my boxer shorts.


34 was my size! From high school onwards, I have always been a 34.  (That's in inches, by the way, not feet as Mrs Ed has been inclined to suggest!)  This has made life much easier for me, because, well, buying boxer shorts has never been an exciting prospect and, historically, has always been left until the situation becomes what my mother used to describe as 'a biological threat to the security of the nation'.


But this did not present a problem when I wore 34's, because I could just say to anyone who was going anywhere near a potential undergarment boutique:- 
'Hey, pick me up a six-pack of boxers, any colour, just as long as they are 34s.'  This was a double winner for me because
a) it wasn't ME having to do the shopping, and b) because I was 'buying in bulk' I was saving money.  I'm a buy-in-bulk kinda guy.


But this year something changed. 


Because I'm 45. 


Let me tell you a story.  A week or two ago we were in Cape town, taking the REE (Resident Expert on Everything) back to his 'digs' for the second term of his studies.  We had three hours to kill before heading back so, at the request of the MCM (Money Consuming Machine), we went to 'China Town'. 


At first I was most disappointed. It was not at all like the sort of China Town I had expected.  There was absolutely no street carnival, no huge puppet dragons bustling through the crowds, nor fireworks exploding in the sky…. No food peddlers offering rare and exotic oriental delicacies from roadside carts….  


It was just shops  about thirty of them in one huge block. And worse yet, they all stocked almost exactly the same things.  I was almost totally put off, ready to climb in the EDGE-mobile and head home, until the MCM made an observation:- Everything was cheap, and everything was in bulk!


Suddenly I was in seventh heaven!


We brought so much useful stuff!  A box of 100 plasters (only R12!) A six dozen carton of small purple candles (you never know when you need an SPC) A full on moustache, fake nose, fake wart, fake eyebrow disguise kit ('Keep reaching out of Children, do not light, incinerate or swallow'). 720 clothes pegs. 18 pairs of lime green ankle socks (One size fits all. 100% pure xylithelene.)…  I was just mentally sizing up the choice between a 96 pack of chicken and mushroom two-minute noodles and  a case of fourteen bottles of liquid henna hair dye  (not that I need it now, of course, but who knows what might happen to me in thirty years or so) when I heard the MCM calling from the other side of the shop
“Look dad, they've got boxer shorts!” she said. 

Not believing my luck I rushed over and grabbed a 'ten pack', scanning it for a price..... R80! 
“Eighty Rand for ten pairs of boxers?” I exclaimed to the shop- keeper in disbelief. “Is that right?”
She nodded tersely at me, and I immediately began to search for my size. This was not easy -  there seemed to be absolutely no markings on the packets, or even the contents (I er… accidentally split one of the plastic packages and other than a 'Do not swallow, Keep away from fire' warning on the boxer shorts label, no other information was offered.)
“I need size 34, do you have?” I asked in desperation. She rummaged through and eventually handed me a pack. 
 “Thirty four” she said, in an uncanny mimic of my own voice.


I couldn't help smiling all the way home. A ten-pack of boxers would last me years!

The next morning I tried on the first pair.  I am not delusional, I know I have put on a gram or two since I left school, so when I heard a slight tearing sound as I pulled them over my calves I was not alarmed. Getting them over my knees was more difficult but I eventually managed.

As I walked out to the car, Mrs Ed called after me, asking why I was walking with a stoop.  I tried to turn round and scold her, but the pain stopped me half way. It took me 15 minutes to get into the car, and I took the long way to work, on account of being unable to turn left.


Later, sitting in the office, I found my breathing was laboured, despite the fact that I was doing nothing.  Nothing was all I could do.  My head was spinning, I was sweating profusely and my toes had developed an eerie, numbish tingle.  Reaching down (in agony) I slid one trouser leg up and saw that my shin was a purple - blue colour.  There was an ugly vein throbbing across my ankle…. 


That's when it suddenly got dark, until four hours later when I regained consciousness. 


 Mrs Ed was carrying me over her shoulder to the car at the time.
“I think …. I think… I might change to a 36… or even 38,” I whimpered.
I heard, or perhaps felt, the rumble of suppressed belly laughter as she answered…
 “You'd be mad if you didn't!”
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Let's exercise tomorrow rather

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So it's here. 

Winter, I mean.
Rather annoying really, because I had just started exercising…. Again. 

Well kind of. 

You see, Mrs Ed and I are now practically 'empty nesters':- The REE (Resident Expert on Everything) is studying (girls) in Cape Town and the MCM (Money Consuming Machine) is boarding at school, though she still graces us with her presence and laundry at weekends.  So…. With a little more time on our hands we have made THE decision. You know the one:-
The Better Lifestyle Decision.

It's probably more her than me. But then I suppose historically (yes, you can use that phrase for someone who just missed the rinderpest) she has been the one to make most of the day-to-day decisions in our relationship.  Of course I have always made the important ones - those really responsible and often difficult decisions which require a lot of thought. 

For example it's ME who has decided over the years whether the government's foreign policy is worth the paper it's printed on, or what would happen if the world ran out of water, or who the coach of the Boks should really be, or what brand of beer is the best, whilst Mrs Ed has taken care of the more menial decisions, like what's for dinner, where are we going to emigrate to, how many children we should have, and that at our wedding, I and all the groomsmen should wear rather effeminate, puke-inducing salmon-pink cravats…..

So now, in her infinite wifedom, Mrs Ed has made me agree to  The Better Lifestyle Decision.

I was fully on board of course, understandably believing that she must surely be thinking of the same 'Better Life' as I was. ie That when the kids had left home, life would automatically be Better….
Better TV to watch,
Better to find the chocolate/ beer/ milk/ last piece of gorgonzola actually in the fridge where we left it,
Better not to have whole house ponging of old cheese sock,
Better to get home and NOT find 78 teenagers of various descriptions scooping our peanut butter out of the jar with their fingers / dying their t-shirts in our kitchen sink / playing  a sort of Justin Beiber / heavy metal medley through our shell-shocked hifi system and the neighbour's eardrums, and snogging on the WMCC (World's Most Comfortable Couch).
Better leg-room on said couch….
Better opportunity to sleep on said couch….

But I was wrong.

I was wronger than Barry.

What Mrs Ed meant by the 'Better Lifestyle Decision'…. Was….
Exercise.

I kid you not.

“We've got more time now, we can go for a run in the mornings and long walks in the evenings,” she suggested ….

Now I may have mentioned in the past that Mrs Ed isn't exactly a morning person. Actually that's a gross understatement. It's like saying Robert Mugabe isn't a jolly good fellow, or Willie Nelson isn't a good singer. 

In fact, whatever the opposite of a 'morning person' is, that's Mrs Ed.

Perhaps I am not explaining myself correctly.  Let me put it this way:- I would like you to imagine a hibernating bear, perhaps a 800kg grizzly, with 27 gunshot wounds to its 'anger gland', a rusty gintrap on its hind paw and a face full of festering porcupine quills.  Now imagine gently waking up said bear at 6am, and suggesting to it that now is the appropriate time for you both to lumber down Pelican Avenue to the lagoon and back.

 Now multiply the terrifying picture in your mind by 27. 

Got it?  Am I being unreasonable in suggesting that perhaps early morning runs are not the best way for a married couple to 'bond' with one another?

If the truth be told, I must also add that I am not exactly the sort who bounds out of bed in sheer delight at the thought of exercise.  Whilst I may have just a micro-tad more enthusiasm than Mrs Ed, it doesn't take much to put me off. 

Of course the night before a run, our stairway to bed is paved with good intentions.
“So, if we are up at six, we can run until seven, then perhaps take the canoe out for a paddle  it's lovely out on the water at that time,” (we must have read that last bit somewhere on a brochure or something)
“That sounds perfect - but I suggest we get up half an hour earlier, that way we can stretch a bit and have a quick bowl of muesli and fruit and a cup of herbal tea before we set off.”

The conversation is a little different seven hours later, when some idiotically cheerful DJ from some equally idiotic radio station skriks us wakker at 5.30am with blasts of Lady Gogga telling us why on earth she was born that way.
Me:- “AAAARRRGGGHHH!!! Uh Uh .. Good grief!  s'we gunna do this thing then? This run thing…?”She:-“GRMMPHH  bleagh, Huh?”Me:- “Are we going to run?”She:- “*WHY ARE YOU ASKING ME?  WHY ME? WHY MUST I ALWAYS BE THE DECISION MAKER?  WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? HAVE YOU GOT NO BACKBONE?” (*I have deleted any expletives and made the conversation far more loving and caring - as this is a family blog)
Me (now from a safe distance):- “It just that you said I was to MAKE SURE you got out of bed.  That on NO ACCOUNT was I to take 'no' for an answer…”She:- “I SUPPOSE IT'S POURING WITH RAIN!”Me:- “No actually it's quite clear…”She:- “WELL I CAN'T RUN IN THE HEAT- YOU KNOW THAT'S NOT POSSIBLE!  WE'LL RUN TONIGHT.”Me:- “Oh...  good idea, …. But now that you're awake….. fancy a doughnut?” (This is a popular ‘bear-calming’ method used by Park rangers in the Rockies.)

Two hours later (around about the third doughnut) we discuss how the late afternoon would be an infinitely better time to exercise.  What better way to wind down after a hectic day, than a healthy jog around the lagoon, with the sunset and everything?
Pouring another coffee we carefully plan the proposed route.
“We could do a circuit through The Island and come back over Cloud 9, it's a stunning view!” enthuses Mrs ED.

Ten hours later, we stand in the kitchen,  running shoes in hand and our eyes nervously flicking from kitchen window to kitchen counter.  We can see the empty road, beckoning us to come and spend some quality time on it, but we can also see the milk tart which has somehow found itself lurking next to our coffee machine.  It taunts us with it's ugly, yet somehow alluring cinnamon-speckled face.
“Er… shall we go then….” I stammer, reaching over my stomach in an attempt to put on my first running shoe… Mrs Ed gives me a look so sorrowful, I feel as if I have told her she has developed a rare, incurable disease, or an allergy to pastry.
“Yes, “ she sighs, “I suppose we… HANG ON! LOOK!” She points more than a little energetically out the window.“A CAR!  A CAR!” “Which means...” I urge her on, somehow sensing that this is going somewhere useful.
“WE CERTAINLY CAN'T RUN IN HEAVY TRAFFIC!  IT'S JUST NOT SAFE!” she beams, reaching for the Milk Tart.
“YES!” I cry, in a manner officially disappointed but inwardly delighted. I rush to the kitchen drawer for the cake slice. “But when are we going to run?”“Tomorrow morning of course!” she answers, “It's so much better to run in the mornings, when we are nice and fresh.  If we are out on the road by 6.30, we'll get to see the sunrise!”
“Orrgghhhh,” I splutter happily (there's not much more you can say with a mouthful of milk tart) “Wogbeblagd dunnda!”Which means, as those of you who speak Milk Tart will know,    
We'd be mad if we didn't!