Forty as Fuck

A guest post from my bestest buddy along with some nincompoopery preamble by my saucy (and sagging) arse

My writer brother-from-another-mother,

Jason Provencio

, and I did our first Substack live together last night—and it was amazeballs. So many of you attended and that meant the world. It was wild that it got up to 350 viewers!

If you’re miffed you missed it, never fear—in the digital world, there’s always a replay, which you can watch here.

I know many of you also read Jason’s Substack, but for anyone who doesn’t I wanted to do a guest post with a piece he recently wrote about being ‘Fifty as Fuck’. I thought this piece was funnier than fucksicles, and sadly…relatable.

J’s pre-geriatric age is still almost a decade older than me, but I can still relate. I turn 504 months old next month. And yes parents—that IS what it sounds like when you tell me your kid is 42 months.

If I were to get pregnant, I’d be considered a ‘geriatric’ pregnancy. And bazoinga does that make me feel old. But also, my bones and joints make me feel old, now that I snap, crackle, and pop more than Rice Krispies. I used to go out dancing, but now the only thing popping and locking is my hip.

I threw out my back last year sneezing, and last week I hurt my shoulder….while sleeping.

When did sleeping become an extreme sport?

And I’m only in my early 40s.

But I do have a myriad of chronic illnesses, because those clusterfuck summabitches like to, well—cluster. So I’m a soon-to-be 42-year-old, with the mind of a 12-year-old in the body of a wannabe septuagenarian. My body feels older than my age.

So much so that I wrote a poem about it, ‘Our Forties Are For Falling Apart’. Here’s an excerpt from it:

My boobsicles went from 36 B to 36 long
and granny panties have replaced my thong
I don’t have to wear bras anymore, yuck, no thanks
thankfully I can just tuck the tatas into my Spanx

I still have an hourglass figure, but the sands have shifted
and down towards my thighs, my ass has now drifted
I peed my pants sneezing n’ broke my back wheezing
I’m a fart away from paralysis or full-body seizing

But if I’m old, then Jason must be old ‘as fuck’. So here’s his piece on being ‘Fifty as Fuck’, which is a list of things for me not to look forward to.

Although I am indubitably looking forward to my ‘get off my lawn’ era…

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Fifty as Fuck

I‘m in Pain, I’m Tired, and Get the Hell off My Lawn

As long as I can still make a fist, I’m gonna be feisty as hell. Bet on that. Photo: Bing

Since turning 50 this past October, I’ve noticed some interesting new developments. Several people have asked me how it seems to be going so far. I have a short, honest answer for those people:

It’s fucking bullshit.

I’ve never been one who subscribes to the theory that turning a certain age makes you feel any different. When I turned 21, I didn’t celebrate by going out to the bars. Hell, I didn’t even buy myself a beer or a glass of wine.

Shocking, I know. I’ve made up for that since then.

I’m surprised I don’t stomp my own grapes in my backyard. I’d probably break my hip.

When I turned 40, nothing life-changing happened. I didn’t suddenly start taking Centrum Silver, eating breakfast at Denny’s, or throwing my back out. As a professional carpet cleaner, that last one had already been happening for years. I’d been working out for half my life at that point, so I was fairly fit and doing fine.

But this 50s bullshit, lemme tell ya…

There were signs before this latest milestone, AKA my high-mileage birthday. My patience had already been wearing thin. My give-a-fuck had been on life-support since my late 30s and a power outage was inevitable. It wasn’t hooked up to a generator, either.

That’s one of the first signs of aging. Once your give-a-fuck breaks down, there’s no repairing it. Replacement parts? Surely you jest. You can’t even find that shit on eBay or Facebook marketplace. Craigslist? Then you’re dealing with the freaks.

I learned to accept the inevitable. I can’t just wake up and jump out of bed anymore. I have to slowly sit up and contemplate my next move. Like a ’46 Buick, this large machine has to warm up for a minute or two. I won’t risk my back going out and having no one here to help Mooch off our bed and me back onto it.

The idea of coffee helps motivate me to get up and stretch a bit. Though not too aggressively. I don’t want to pull a muscle or pop my shoulder out of place. This morning, I noticed my left hamstring was a little bit sore.

Yeah, this was some fuckery, last June. Having to go back for the matching set was defeating.

Fantastic. It paired well with my sore left Achilles tendon which has been giving me hell for several days. Makes sense, I guess. I did cook dinner last night for 90 minutes. The nerve of me. My body is leading a revolt, and it’s not even January 6th.

12 1/2-year-old Mooch and I carefully navigate the stairs down to the kitchen. Not at all surprisingly, she beats me to the bottom. I’m not looking forward to the day when one of us eats shit and rolls our ankle, skidding across the hardwood floor.

I’m careful about bending correctly to get her daily peanut butter bone. Bend with your knees, not your lower back. I’ve fucked that up on the job too many times in the past. I feel I’ve learned my lesson(s).

Snap, crackle, pop.

Cereal? No. Sadly, those were my knees. Bending properly to save my back comes at the expense of other lower body parts. Thank you, Veterans, we appreciate your service.

I eyeball the stairs and shudder. Wake-up Juice in hand, I contemplate having one of those lift chairs installed. Tony Soprano’s mother had the right idea on that show.

Yeah, this would be badass. I can’t wait.

Mooch bounds up the stairs, excited for her peanut butter bone. Fucking show-off. I reach our room about 13 minutes after she does. She shoots me a look that says, “Christ, Methuselah, what took you so long?”

Watch it, Mouthy Mooch. I’m the one who’s gonna be taking care of you when you become this pathetic. We gotta look out for each other, it’s a team effort, here. We can’t count on the kids letting us live with them someday.

I get online and start my Writer’s Day. I find myself having to enlarge the font size on my screen, another annoying goddamn development now that I’m in my fifth decade. But why even bother? Everything online lately pisses me off.

Trump’s ridiculous daily bullshit. The idiotic comments I get from his supporters. The ads I’m being targeted for on Facebook. No, I don’t need little blue pills or a Life Alert necklace.

Well, how much does Life Alert cost these days, anyway? Maybe I’ll click on that one. Fucking stairs. Little round dogs getting under your feet may be hazardous for your health. Better safe than sorry.

I don’t want this to be my near future. What if I landed on Mooch? She’d be flat as a pancake.

After a few hours of work, I have a story worth publishing. I’ve earned my lunchtime break. But even that has taken a turn for the pathetic. My once cast-iron stomach has started speaking in tongues. It seems that my leftover spaghetti sauce tends to bother my tumbley more than it used to.

Onions, spices, tomato sauce. You’ve betrayed me, you pricks.

That’s ok, though. No pain, no gain. Not that I need abdominal gains. The vino tends to be the contributing factor there. I try not to get negative about it. My Uncle Johnny was quite the wine drinker, and he lived past 90. Plus I’m no quitter.

*Jumps on Amazon to browse for jeans with a comfortable elastic waistband. Do they make them for portly pooches, too?

Speaking of that, it’s time for our daily walk. Daddy needs a little exercise almost as bad as Mooch does. It’s a nice break from being in front of screens most of my day. My eye strain doesn’t get any better as my transition to Mr. Magoo gets closer to completion.

I better be sure my glasses are always handy. Perhaps I’ll buy a stylish strap to put around them.

If my body isn’t feeling like the Tin Man when he gets rained on in “The Wizard of Oz”, I’ll venture out to the YMCA. It’s only a five-minute drive from our home and I’m running out of excuses not to go. It’s true that if you don’t use it, you lose it. I seem to do better when I’m working out regularly than during periods of hibernation.

The downside to this is evident upon my return home. Once I settle in for Round Two of my daily writing routine, the afternoon sun hits our bedroom window. The combination of warmth plus Mooch’s cuddling/snoring sometimes causes Heavy-Eyelid Syndrome.

I started noticing this last year. And it’s bullshit.

I’m trying not to be prideful about this. Seriously, how much pride do I even have left, at this stage? Ankle braces, eyeglasses, motorized stairs, elastic pants, what’s left? A 30-minute power nap it is.

Mooch approves. Obviously.

She’s way cuter than I am when I’m sawing logs with my snoring.

After our nap, it’s time for more writing-related shenanigans. I check the comments on my articles, which usually proves to be a mistake. Sadly, I still have yet to block all of the MAGA morons on Substack. The ones who feel the need to tell me that I’m an asshole for writing about how racism and bigotry are deplorable.

At least that broken give-a-fuck comes in handy for this portion of my day. Where I used to argue and debate back and forth in my younger years, now it’s easier to laugh at them and block their dumb asses. Saves me time and preserves my energy for more productive things.

Such as yelling at the neighborhood children and telling them to get off my lawn, before I turn the sprinklers on them. Or sic Mooch after them. “SMITHERS! RELEASE THE HOUNDS!”

Mooch would love to be part of this pack. But I’d never actually DO this to kids. &:^)

At least I generally have something wonderful to look forward to at the end of the work day. My Bride arriving home? Sure, that’s it. And if I happen to enjoy a glass or five of Cabernet, it’s wonderful to have a lovely person to do that with.

While we’re turning the TV up and asking each other “WHAT?” constantly in between pausing our shows to pee every 20 minutes. Aging gracefully? Whatever.

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