Here’s the story of nose hair, old age, and lampposts.
I’ve started plucking nose hair. I told you guys, I told you all, I am getting very old. I told you this right after I turned 24. And you all laughed! Well, who’s laughing now, eh? Certainly not me. I don’t know how women do it. All this plucking malarkey. It really bloody hurts. I noticed this week, whilst undergoing one of my regular daily grooming sessions, that a nose hair was sticking out of the end of my nostril. Ah, well, just a simple pluck, can’t hurt that bad – “HOLY MOTHER OF GOD, I’M DYING! ARRRRGH!” Next day. Oh, another. Same hell. And then same again a few days later. That’s not good, is it? I’ll be getting grey hairs, next. Sniff. I don’t want to get old. And hairy. And bald. And fat. It’s a rather depressing thing, is this. The sands of time are not being kind to me. They’re starting to bury me. Bloody stupid sand. I’ll show it. Where’s my emergency shovel?
I’m now wondering if I should be incredibly worried as to what’s gonna go next. My hearing? That would be bad, although I’d finally have a use for my ear trumpet. And my tendency for saying ‘What’s that sonny?’ won’t sound so weird. Maybe it won’t be so bad. I could start wearing slacks. Horn-rimmed glasses. Putting freshly baked pies on the windowsill of an open window. I could get a rocking chair and start knitting jumpers for the grandchildren. I don’t have any and I probably never will, so ‘grandchildren’ will probably just be ‘creepy child mannequins’. And of course, I’ll be playing my old favourite ‘Sing, Sing, Sing’ by Benny Goodman on the old gramophone. Hmm. It reminds me of the night before your 13th birthday. You go to sleep aged 12 and wake up in the morning aged 13, with, for the first time, a massive – oh, I can’t say that. But the point is, maybe it isn’t as terrifying as first thought. Maybe I shouldn’t be so incredibly worried after all.
Maybe what I should be worried about are the unforeseen things. Like when you have a car. You can service the engine and polish the metalwork all you want, but you can do nothing about the magpie crashing into your window whilst you’re at 60 on a country lane. Or your daughter vomiting violently all over the back seat, and herself, after you pick her up from her prom. Or even a sudden, unexpected mass leprechaun attack at a set of traffic lights. There are real dangers in this world, readers.
You could even compare the ravages of age to pregnancy. It’s probably more applicable. Women get all kinds of strange cravings. They know they’re coming, but what will they be? A penchant for bowler hats. Odd combinations of food. A fondness for licking lampposts. That sorta thing…
I’m not for one second comparing any such plight I may be having to that of a pregnant woman. Purely the cravings bit. I’m not vomiting relentlessly or asking others to tie my shoes. That’s a stupid notion, anyhow. For starters, my shoes are slip-ons.
I had a sudden moment of realisation the other day as I was shouting at a flannel. You stop shouting for a few seconds and stand there, in the room, motionless. The only whirring a pondering inside one’s brain. ‘When did I start shouting at flannels?’ That’s a good point my brain makes. Is this a sign of age? I was busy, rushing around, and the flannel, the flannel falls from its perch on atop the radiator and lands on the floor. “OH MY GOD! YOU ARE THE LAST THING I NEED TODAY! WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU!” In retrospect, there are biggest concerns in the world.
But it’s not just the flannel. I dropped a napkin the other day. “FOR GOD’S SAKE, CAN YOU NOT STAY ON THE BLEEDIN’ TABLE!” Grouchiness and complaining is often associated with age, but not at my age, surely. Although I have started shaving my earlobes. But how are you supposed to know what is what? What is an unforeseen consequence of getting a bit older and what is some serious mental condition whose only symptom is flannel shouting? Hmm? I sure didn’t notice what I was saying. It may sound stupid now, but if this happened without me noticing, then what else has happened? What else will happen? Am I in control of anything, or am I going to get old, grey and grouchy? And before long, I’ll be a puddle of goo. Life passes by too quickly, doesn’t it?
There’s simply nothing you can do about it. The day will come when I wake up, look in the mirror, and the reflection that I’ll see will be that of the old guy from Up! Never ‘got’ that movie. Couldn’t he have lifted it up and put it on one of those huge trucks you see moving houses on TV? It wouldn’t have made for a great movie, but I would’ve gone to see it. Then again, I’d go see a movie about paint drying. What? It’s either ‘go to the cinema to see that movie’ or ‘sit at home watching paint dry’. I don’t have a very interesting life. Probably why no girl has ever wanted to date me. “Ooh, Ally, what are gonna see tonight?” “Well, sweetheart, have you ever seen ‘The Wonderful World of Paint’? Why are you walking away? Oh.” Sorry I used the word ‘sweetheart’, I do tend to dwell in the 1920s…
The trick is finding the balance. You can’t take a broad to see an interesting movie because she won’t be interested in you, you can’t take her to see a dull movie because she’ll fall asleep, and you can’t take her to see a movie she doesn’t like. If she doesn’t like gore, for the love of lemons, don’t take her to see Alien. Then she’ll think you’re a nutcase. The obvious answer here is to not go to a movie at all, and instead take her to a night at the ballroom, followed by a walk down the boulevard to the local lake, enjoying ice cream under the moonlight. Of course, the danger there is that she may be repulsed by the thought of dating someone identical to her granddad. Her loss. It’s my idea of a perfect date. The option I’ve went with is not bothering at all with all this dating malarkey. But now as my nostril hairs begin their slow march south, growing ever longer out of my nose until the eventual day comes when I have what appears to be a moustache worryingly similar to Hitler’s, I do wonder what I’m missing out on.
Shyness is a jail, you can’t break out of it, so you are limited to a life of awkwardness and difficulty. Things like dates will remain forever a dream until the day I die alone in an apartment and aren’t found until I’ve turned into a puddle of goo. And that’s okay. Most of the time, you can live with that knowledge quite comfortably, but there do come moments, like déjà vu, that take you ‘out of reality’. That might have been one small rogue nostril hair, but it was giant leap for me. The future has arrived. I can no longer ignore it.
Although it does raise an interesting question. What do they do with you if you die and they don’t find you until you’ve turned into a puddle of goo? They can’t bury you. Do they tip you down the drain? I’m not sure. Meh. Might not happen. Might get what I want, readers. I’ve always said I’d like to be buried, and have my final song at the ceremony be ‘Monster Mash’, the greatest song ever written. I don’t want to be cremated. Unless you can turn my ashes into a lamppost. I might get a pregnant girl with a craving for lamppost licking. It’s actually quite a good thing, when you think about it. Why? Because although it may never happen in life, a girl may yet touch me in death.
Which certainly sounded much less creepy in my head…
The 34th President of the United States of America and former five-star general, Dwight D. Eisenhower (1890-1969), once said, “Neither a wise man nor a brave man lies down on the tracks of history to wait for the train of the future to run over him.”
Peace Out :|:
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