Chapter 62: Strange things about my body

As a 43 year old gay man, I am beginning to feel that I'm at a crossroads as regards my complex and troubled relationship with my body. The problem is that my body starting to show its age, and it seems that I am faced with a stark choice: obsess about it, or let it go.

My shoulder injury is turning me into a blancmange
For example, how am I supposed to react to the development of an acromioclavicular (AC) shoulder joint injury? "Cyst on the bone, from too much weight lifting, happens with older people" said my sports doctor, as he tapped a funny gray protrusion on a bone in the X-ray of my shoulder.
I nearly wept, and then I wanted to rip his face off. Older people! But honestly, that cyst is catastrophic! "No tennis, no swimming, no shoulder exercises, no chest exercises. For two months. And then we'll see," said Dr Ibrahim, sounding not especially optimistic. I can already feel my body deflating. I will become "flaco" as the Spaniards so aptly put it. I will morph into the human equivalent of a blancmange.

Even my mother liked my tattoo
I must confess, however, that I'm awfully pleased with my new tattoo (see below). Even my mother liked it, which is truly saying something! I had expected her to spontaneously give birth to triplets when she saw it - she's 80 - but for some inexplicable reason she liked it. "It's not a picture, after all" she said. If anyone can explain what she meant I'll give them $100. But even though I've been uber-thrilled with my tattoo, the other day when I was admiring it in the mirror of the gym I noticed that when I bend my arm into a right angle, there's some truly hideous creping of the skin in the elbow fold. Now, where can one get a plastic surgeon who specializes in elbow lifts?

Some thoughts on my hair, since you all seem so personally invested in it
And anyway, what about gray hair? None on my head yet, praise the Lord, but that's actually pretty scant consolation since the hair there is falling out faster than it can turn grey. "It's awfully fine" said the hairdresser, dubiously, as she fingered my scalp with a resigned sigh. "I'll do the best I can, but..." I didn't need her to finish the sentence to know that she meant to say that at my age I clearly mustn't expect trichological miracles.

So I've been agonizing for weeks over what to do with my hair. Everyone seems to have a strong opinion on this subject and they are not shy of voicing their minds, which has left me even more confused than before. "Mean and sleazy" said some friends about my shaved-head look. "Ridiculous, I mean just how old are you, anyway?" asked others (rhetorically) about my mohawk. "Unbelievably dorky, and just plain ugly" said still other good friends about my recent attempts to grow my hair out.

My writer friend Bridgit captured the dilemma by opining “Well you look younger with hair but sexier without hair.” I know she meant to be helpful, but how could she? How could she give me this reply which simply does not compute? It’s like asking calculator to divide by zero. Error! Error! Error! (When I was a child my mother and brother and I bought my father one of the first ever home calculators for his birthday. It was a black plastic box about the size of a bread loaf, could only do simple arithmetical operations and best of all you had to plug it into the wall! The display would go crazy if you tried to divide by zero. My brother and I thought it would be cool to divide by zero and leave it running to see what would happen. The calculator caught on fire and melted into the carpet. This is a true story.)

Anyway, I've decided. A quarter of an inch of hair is the look which suits me best. Now stop with the well meant but frankly distressing slurry of advice. It's upsetting me.

If I get gray pubes, it's all over
And speaking of gray hair, what about the other parts of my body? Fortunately, there are no awful gray monsters lurking around my pink bits yet. (Gray pubic hair truly will be the end.) But I do now have many gray beard hears, and they are causing me no end of grooming problems since they simply refuse to clipper off along with their black brothers.

And folks, how about gray nostril hairs? Today I found a one, very long, very thick, poking impudently out of my left nostril. What does it all mean? Nothing good I’m sure. Probably a harbinger of early onset Alzheimer’s.

And what about my hip/ankle/lower back/elbow?
I could go on. For example, I could talk at length about my hip that delights in spontaneously giving way on occasion, usually in front of some really cute guy in the street. Or I could blather on about clicky knees, or my ankle that hurts when I run, or indeed my lower back that hurts every morning when I get out of bed. Or I could go on about the strange fact that I also seem to have tennis elbow and golfers elbow simultaneously. And for the record, I've never golfed in my life. Oh, the sad truth is that I may still look OK, but underneath it all, I'm falling apart desperately quickly.

Freakishly large calves
Finally, let's talk about my calves. Actually, more to the point, let's not. Oh, I do wish people would stop remarking on them. If I wear shorts at the gym, I am hounded by people asking me about them. “Freakishly large” said one sensitive person the other day. Honestly, I feel just like the woman with double G boobs. No one looks at my face or cares about my personality. They just stare lasciviously at my legs.

Still, its not all bad with calves. They could, like the woman with the double G tits, be my route to fame and riches. I could go and develop some useless bit of machinery with an exercise program to get “calves like mine” and then go on the infomercial sales circuit. I’d be a frikkin millionaire in days. And if I died in a plane crash, at least my calves would easily feed a family of five survivors. And I suppose, even in my day-to-day existence, my monstrous "freakishly large" calves are better than chicken legs. Yes, they're definitely preferable to chicken legs. At least I have that. Oh, thank God!
So, dear readers, tell me: How am I doing on the letting go, as opposed to obsessing, about my body?