If you’re a guy, one of these days you will look in the mirror and start
shaking your head and screaming, “Oh, no!” Take it from me, many men
our age experience this and all of us feel like shit for at least a month. Why?
Because when you looked into the mirror you saw Christopher Dodd or Bill
Bradley. Fine gents both but . . . .
Congratulations! You are officially a member of the Turkey Neck Club
of America. That means you got a wattle. Don’t be confused. You’ve had a
waddle for some time. This is different. This is a wattle. It’s one of many,
many ugly parts on a turkey. This one, a lump of gristle, hangs down from
the neck. My dictionary says turkeys and chickens have wattles as do -- lizards.
Would you feel better if we called you old lizard neck? I didn’t think so.
Since there’s not much you can do about it, don’t worry about it. As a man of
leisure with lots and lots of free time, do you really want to spend it looking at
yourself? Of course not. But for the sadists among you, the ones who simply can’t
stop looking at themselves, here are some other things most men your age have
or are about to have.
Tits, as I trust you know, are always a good place to start. You’ve got’em, Big
Guy. You may not have noticed them yet because you always shave with a T-shirt
or undershirt on. Next time you shave, do it bare-chested, then lean over the sink
and look up at the mirror. See’em? Yes, they’re disgusting. Remember when you
thought the day would never come when you got tired of looking at tits—in
magazines, on videos or every once in a while--lucky you--live and on another person.
Well, one little peek at yourself in the mirror proves that day has come. A friend of
mine, a man who has developed tits, says of a particular shoe outlet, “Every time I
walk by a DSW store I feel like going in and buying a pair of pumps.”
Something else you probably know little about is the back of your head. It’s not a
place that’s easy to see, so you’re under the illusion there’s a lot of hair back there.
That isn’t the case at all for many of us. It’s either baby-assed bald or populated only
by a few strands of vermicelli. So be it. Only a certified goofball would fool around
with a comb for longer than three-tenths of a second trying to make something out
of nothing. It doesn’t look like Ted Koppel back there. Never did, never will. Don’t do
a comb over. Get over it!
While you may be disappointed in the hair on that part of your head, things are
booming elsewhere. Your eyebrows grow about an inch a day and are as thick as
the bristles in a horse brush. There’s a hair jungle jutting out of both ears,
which you try to thin out when shaving. It also seems you have to trim your nose
hairs once an hour. Those babies come in both white and black these days—all part
of nature’s wonderful plan for you and your body.
You also, more than likely, have a belly. Your wife, when asked by you, may say
you don’t, but this is the same woman who says she “can’t see anything with these
new glasses,” is on medication and just the other day called you “Spencer,” which
isn’t your first or last name or the name of anyone you’ve ever known. Welcome
to Bellytown. In the winter you can wear a thick sweater to help hide the belly the
Mrs. denies seeing and in the summer you will decide you look so much better
with a loose shirt hanging outside your pants.
A week ago you noticed your hands and couldn’t remember having that many
brown spots. (If you don’t remember having that many fingers, that means some-
thing else.) Brown spots are good. They signify experience. Grandkids love to look
at them and ask what they are, how you got them, and if they hurt. It gets a
conversation going with them, gives you a chance to dig out some of your old
stories that, after hearing for the four millionth time, a certain unnamed someone
has asked you to please not tell again. Not that I wish you any past pain or future
misfortune, but count your blessings if you have one really good crooked finger or
maybe even a stub. It fascinates the hell out of the grandkids, the ones under five
anyway, and they never get tired of hearing you blow off about it. There’s nothing
wrong with changing the tale every time you relate it to a different little pup on
your knee. What’s the harm? It’s only a story. You’ve told it so often even you don’t
know if it’s true anymore.
The Good News: How you look isn’t nearly as important as you once thought it
was.
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This is a chapter from "Did I Really Change My Underwear Every Day?"
published in July 2011 by Sunstone Press. You can order a copy at Sunstone Press 800-
243-5644, Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble.com or your bookstore.
