I’m going to hate growing old

I’ve always been the sort of person that gets things done when they need be done. I find it incredibly difficult to leave things to a later date or for someone else to address. It’s a meticulous habit than I’ve learnt to deal with. And I’m quite certain that you’ve, at one point of the other in your life, felt that way, be it in a little less compulsive fashion.

I’m convinced that you, at one time or the other have had that same incessant voice in your head telling you to do all the things you don’t necessarily need to, but end up doing anyways.

For instance, waking up in the morning leaves me with a compelling desire to have a scratch around the gentlemen’s area. Finding bird excrement on my car makes me want to have the whole thing washed, only after having the assailant shot. And of course there’s the iron will of Zeus in me that aches to have a hysterical laugh at a friend who’s just tripped and fell down the stairs.

So you can somewhat imagine my shock surprise when I woke up one morning, looked in the mirror and found that a 30Kg blob has somehow cohabitated with what used to be my mid-section. How could I have let this happen? The last time something like this happened it was almost 10 years ago and I made pretty damn sure to get rid of it hastily with a strict assault on the beast. But again? How could it have slipped my defenses?

The blob is a sneaky creature. It needs neither attention nor nurturing to nourish itself and find harbor.

The wake of this realization must also have something to do with how everyone has been on my tail recently about how Bob – as it’s affectionately been named – tends to take the lead before me everywhere I go, stealing somewhat the limelight of my fashionably late entrances.

Regardless, as the man I was raised to be, there was a problem at hand and something had to be done about it. So about three months ago, I began my campaign to evict Bob. I would run every Monday to Thursday after work for an hour, with the addition of some time with the weights on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and take the rest of the week off. On top of this, I’ve also made a conscious decision to stay off fizzy drinks, give up the burger and fries for a Subway sandwich on most days and of course, refrain from kicking back the pints when there’s really no occasion to do so.

Suffice to say, the results 3 months later have been pretty impressive. The only problem is that this time, Bob’s exile is taking a bit more effort than it used to. Simply because these days, I need a good stretch before I head out for a run. Not that it’s a problem or anything, but the realization that I didn’t need to stretch at all a couple of years ago, and do need a good warm up now puts the fear of aging in me.

What I am inevitably and have been painstakingly trying to deflect is the realization that time will be the death of me.

I fear growing old. I can’t stand to think that one day, all my ideas, thoughts and feelings, let alone my physical state, will be dated. And even if it isn’t hitting me all that hard just yet, god I’m going to hate when it does.

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