Mysterical-E

Tangents

Gravity sucks.

I mean this in the literal and the figurative sense. The literal is, well, obvious. It pulls things, or holds things on the surface of the planet and, in a positive manner, keeps us from flying off into space. Not that we would exist without it to begin with, but you get my point. But that same said phenomena is also responsible for elastic waistbands on pants.

Which I hate.

I can’t really say that I am lazy; I don’t really think I am. But if I had my druthers between a three hour session of “Sweating to the Oldies” with Richard Simmons or sipping a cup of tea and reading a Lee Child thriller, to me the choice is Jack Reacher every time. I do exercise, in a fashion, by taking my dogs to the dog park and walking around the paths while they go on the hunt for the evil squirrels. And I do on occasion take a nice long walk sans barking dogs to clear my head, but you won’t find me playing gym rat watching other masochists in multi-colored spandex attempting to prove genetics wrong. Maybe I should get caught up in all of that psychosis; after all, the media insists that we don’t get enough fiber, glucosamine, vitamins, bee pollen, whole grains and other assorted essentials, and if I believe all of that, I really should believe that buying the newest home gym sold by someone with zero percent body fat and thinks that six pack abs are for pussies and is now working on ten-pack abs and telling me if I don’t buy this wonderful easy-to-use machine for only thirty seven payments of forty nine ninety nine billed conveniently to my major credit card, well, by gum, you’re just a fat loser.

Maybe so.

I do not really believe all that crap, but, as I have mentioned, gravity sucks. It would seem because of this mystery of the universe that all of the upper body weight that I was once so proud of twenty years ago has slowly but surely began its migration to the lower parts of my body. Its final destination is just above my beltline, where it is building retirement condos with an ocean view. Oddly enough, my actual weight remains pretty much the same. Gravity appears to be exerting its force on me and evolving my body into a new life form.

In its wake, hair seems to be growing where it never grew before. My nose? Why would hair grow on my nose? What evolutionary purpose would that serve? Attracting insects for food? Protection from ravenous dust mites? The hair that was once my eyebrows has now evolved into thick, cable-like appendages that grow at an inch a day. I’m thinking of saving them to make a braided rope that would have the strength of steel yet pliable enough to rappel down a skyscraper. My beard, once dark and vibrant has now turned a dull gray, perhaps evolving to shield my face for solar flares or space radiation. And now I have hairs on my back that are longer than on the ones my head, and for the god’s sake they’re gray too, growing at such an amazing rate that it rivals the dandelions that mysteriously appear in the yard in spring seemingly overnight.
This brings us to the pants.

For years I have worn blue jeans. I love the way that in time and many washings, they mold to your body, giving a feeling of comfort that is unrivaled in the clothing world. For the better part of my life, I had no need for a belt; the pants simply stayed where they were, comfortable walking or sitting or doing any number of activities. Then I got a little older, and a belt was needed to keep them from sliding down ever so slightly, and it was fashionable to do so; silver buckles and braided black leather were very cool. Not that I am a slave to fashion, but this was such a minor detail, it was almost insignificant. But now a belt is the only thing that keeps me out of jail for indecent exposure, or at the very least embarrassment at my wrinkled boxers being shown to the population at large.

It seems that my butt is disappearing! What evolutionary purpose would this serve? Buttless men walking around forever, never sitting, because there is no cushion to serve that purpose? What the hell is going on?
Now I know what the pants are for. When I was young, I used to giggle at my grandfathers and their pants with the clever elastic waistband. They knew the evolutionary secret of getting old. They knew that your butt would go the way of the Dodo, and there was no belt in the world that would save you from this fate, so someone with a genius vision invented elastic waist band pants. They made them roomy and shapeless; no butt accentuation here, well, you haven’t got any butt left, do you? And you won’t find them at any of the higher-end retailers. Macys and Nordstrom’s turn their noses up at this particular form of clothing. You might find them at Target, but it’s doubtful. Yes, Wal-Mart is going to be the place to obtain these gems, where others of your ilk are shuffling aimlessly down the brightly lit isles, eyeing blue light specials, slogging through bins of discount DVD’s, hoping for a rare episode of the Golden Girls, noticing that most of the products have a sign that says, “As seen on TV!”, and generally succumbing to the fate that brought them here. And in the end, you become the shopper that Wal-Mart has niched out for you; hopelessly fat; food stains on various parts of your clothes; a thousand-yard stare that was once the exclusive domain of war-hardened veterans and a sense of hopelessness that clings to you like a burrito fart fueled by cheap beer.
I could forestall this inevitability by joining a gym and working out six days a week, or buying that amazing home gym that folds up neatly and fits under your bed, but I don’t like my bedroom smelling like an old gym sock, and watching fat women with over-exuberant personal trainers telling them they look fantastic in their new spandex color-coordinated outfits while selling them energy shakes for eight bucks a piece is just a little too depressing.

For now, well I have two more notches on my belt left before I run out, and I’m still tying my shoes instead of using Velcro straps, so all is not lost. I can’t necessarily bend down to tie the shoes without holding my breath, but that’s exercise of a sort, isn’t it?

I’ll take comfort with Lee Child and Craig Johnson and their older, somewhat worn out heroes and delay thinking about whether to go out in a blaze of glory or fade away in a Wal-Mart dumpster. The trouble is, sometimes I drop the damn books, and I have the sneaking suspicion that gravity is somehow getting stronger; because it certainly can’t be me getting weaker could it?

Sigh. Gravity sucks.