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| Bukowski’s Dirty Old Man. |
I am old.
And I can feel it. I feel it in the aching joints and sore muscles. In the perpetually tired brain and never-ending exhaustion. In the desperate lunges towards my bed to answer my dying need for sleep. And in the desperate, loud protests for not getting up even when I have rested enough. I feel it in this need to take breaks even when I ought to concentrate on the big task ahead. And in longer than average time that I take to make those snap calls. I feel it when people half my age talk about making twice in one year that I’ve made cumulatively in my entire life. And when I know that I’d never be able to catch up with them. I feel old when every interaction with a member of opposite gender makes me cringe and gives me butterflies in my stomach. And when the opposite gender ignores my attempts at these interactions. I feel it when friends talk about things like homes and babies and health. And when I have nothing to contribute in such discussion.
I feel old.
I can see it as well. Its actually easier to see. I see it all the time. Starting with the balding head. And the white sprinkled carelessly in my beard and whatever mop of hair is left on my head. I see it in ugly eye-bags. And thick folds on my neck. Double, triple chin. Aging, freckled, skin that could well have been the underside of a dried leaf if I weren’t this dark. I see it when I get called “uncle” and other such things by people who are not more than a couple of years younger than I. And when I am in two minds about addressing someone that even if they look my age. I can see it in my boredom that creeps on me when I goto these loud fancy places that everyone else seems to be reveling in. And when, much to my surprise, I enjoy going to these simple quiet hideouts where a few years back I wouldn’t even want to tread. I see it when things I loved to eat, the McDonalds, Coke et al when I was younger get replaced by boring foods like Muesli and Green Tea. And especially when I seem to enjoy em more than the greasy, fried cousins. I see it when I catch myself staring into a mirror all the time trying to notice that new faint age line that had appeared last night. I see it when I think twice, sometimes thrice, before choosing on a shirt for that all-important meeting. I see it when I my hands and feet start shaking by themselves. I see it all the time. All the time.
I can see that I am old.
If this is growing up, getting old is growing up, even if its a small part, I did not sign up for this. I did not.
P.S.: If there is one author that you ought to read before you die, you ought to read all of work from Bukowski. Really. And despite all my fandom I cant seem to spell his name right. I have to Google for it every time.