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My Body Turned 50 But I'm Still A Kid At Heart

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I take a lot of pride in the fact that at one time, I was what you would call a "technology maven" -- an early adopter, a pioneer of the virtual world. I was the guy friends would call to program their VCR, teach them how to burn a CD or explain how to download an iTunes podcast.

Yet somewhere along the way I was left behind, and now cutting-edge technology that used to amaze me simply confounds me.

I hate to admit this, but I'm getting old, and not in a dignified fine wine kind of way, but more along the lines of your favourite blue jeans that are becoming a little too threadbare and risqué to wear out in public.

Speaking of jeans, I long for the good ol' days when you could walk into a department store and buy a pair of Levis without having to consult a flowchart describing what best suits your "fit profile." Gone are the days where your only decision was "blue jeans or black jeans?"

It's very much like the analogy of placing a frog into a pot of water. Throw it into boiling water, and the frog will jump right back out, but if you put it into warm water and slowly bring the water to a boil, the frog is blissfully ignorant of the imminent danger.

There is something about turning 50 that is freaking me out. Just do the math, and you'll be alarmed, too.

And that's just how the aging process has been for me -- it's as if my night vision literally disintegrated overnight. Driving at night when it's raining? Forget about it! Those lines on the road mysteriously vanish.

And then there's the inevitable stare down in the mirror every morning while I shave. Some days are better than others in that I manage to convince myself that my hairline is not receding, but there is no denying the huge mutant hairs growing out of my ears.

I swear those furry ears happen while I'm snoring away -- and trying to pull those mutant X-Men hairs out with your fingers? Forget about it! Those hairs feel as though they are directly connected to your spinal cord.

I don't consider myself "old," but then again, I'm not sure if one ever does. Yes, I have more aches and pains than I used to have, and my scars and bruises may fade, but they never really completely go away anymore.

I'm still a kid at heart... Who am I trying to convince? Alright, I'm still mischievously immature at heart!

At times it feels as though I'm living two parallel lives -- and believe me, it's a balancing act that is becoming increasingly more tenuous with each passing year. Take yesterday for instance. In honour of my 50th birthday, I decided to get a tattoo of Wile E. Coyote on my calf. Before you judge me, I should add that I already had gotten a tattoo of The Road Runner on my other calf when I turned 40.
... and that is when it hit me -- suddenly, I'd become my father.

I walked into the downtown tattoo parlour feeling hip and cool, and I made sure I peppered lots of "dudes" and "bros" into my conversation with the 20-something tattoo artist who was inking me while heavy metal tunes thrashed in the background. I left that tattoo parlour with a youthful bounce in my step.

(OK, my calf was killing me -- let's just call it a "youthful hobble.")

Walking down the street, I remembered I had to pop into the drugstore to pick up a few things on the way home -- one of them being some cover-up cream for the age spots which are beginning to appear with growing frequency all over my face.

Later that evening I reached for this magical cover-up cream packed with retinol and vitamin C, promising to bring a youthful glow as it not only revitalized my skin but also revitalized my life!

Another thing I've noticed is that the print on packaging appears to be getting increasingly smaller and smaller with each year. I reached for my reading glasses so that I could read the instructions for my new-fangled, age-reducing cream, and that is when it hit me -- suddenly, I'd become my father.

There is something about turning 50 that is freaking me out. Just do the math, and you'll be alarmed, too.

Let's just say you live to be 80, and that no longer seems all that old to me.

80 years x 365 days = 29,200 days, so that leaves me only 10,950 days, and when you subtract the time you spend sleeping and working, the time crunch really starts to hit home.

I'm trying not to think about it too much because it just leaves me feeling overwhelmed. I should really be doing something more productive with my waning time, but my achy back is killing me right now.

I think I'll just "Netflix and chill" -- wait, scrap that.

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