“Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.” – Mark Twain
“I hope I die before I get old.” – Roger Daltrey
I have a lot in common with transsexuals. Let me explain. People who are born in a body that they don’t indentify with, sometimes live as the opposite sex. Some even get surgery to become the man or woman they were supposed to be.
I’m like this.
My mind, heart, and body don’t match. I think like an artist. I love like a suburban husband and father. I ache like a former pro wrestler. It’s frustrating. I still think like the early 20 something writer wannabe. Every once in a while, I wish I could take Bobina, a bottle or 3 of whiskey, find a beach, and write until some idiot published me. I treasure my children and the life my wife and I have made with them. My teenage daughter’s last cheerleading competition was Saturday and I’m in withdrawals, wanting more. I’m breaking down her team’s routine instead of studying how the Jets can beat the Dolphins on Monday night football. My 7 year old’s report card is the most important piece of paper in my house right now, not the books I’m supposed to be writing. Most of all, my body is falling apart. I think I am in the onset of andropause. I haven’t been to a doctor yet, but I’m having hot flashes, irritatibility, aches and pains, sleeplessness, and massive losses of energy.
Yesterday I killed it at the gym. The workout was hard but I nailed it. I felt amazing. I came home and just passed out. By the late afternoon I was snapping at everyone in my house, burning up from the waves of fire over my body, and felt like I was 80 years old. Then Indy race car driver Dan Wheldon died, leaving a young wife and two children under the age of 3, and I hated myself for having problems at all.
I know who and what I am. I just don’t think I like it all the time. It’s no fun being nice and responsible and caring and happy. It kind of sucks. It’s me I’m talking about. Bobina and the girls are the best. Without them, I’m just some loser. The point is, I wish my head and body matched my heart.
This is a lot of sarcasm with a smattering on insight.
My wife watches every vampire with a heart show on television and the movies. You know how those teenaged looking kids that are really 200 years old are moody and brooding because they have to drink pig blood instead of eating humans like they’re supposed to? Look, jerks, the shows are on and sometimes I’m writing in the same room, get off me. Anyway, that’s me. I need to feed.
I’m supposed to go the doctor tomorrow. I’m sure she’ll tell me it’s the aging process and I’m “normal”. I’m hoping she tells me I’m really a teenage vampire and I’ll live forever. Then I’ll walk out in the sun and become dust.
Technically this falls under 30 Days of Shamelessness numbers 12. – Share a health struggle and number 24 :”share a struggle you just have to get over”. So now the 30 days nazis JenO
will be satisfied (joking). New Helene Troy story episode for my Indie Ink challenge “i know how the caged bird sings”, tomorrow.
Today’s song is from The Who. I’ve always interpreted You Better You Bet as a dysfunctional relationship between an aging rock star and his trying to be normal, responsible girlfriend/wife. I feel this way sometimes. I listen to the sounds of ol T.Rex and I love my wife’s passport picture. She has the cutest nose. Play this loud, it helps. Here’s You Better You Bet