They say when a man gets older his testosterone level goes down, while for a woman, testosterone levels go up. That is why Grandpa has titties and Grandma has a beard. If they live long enough, they can shop in the same department. You can’t afford a sex change operation? Wait a decade or two.
This also means that the fems become even more fey with age. Can you imagine? Ironically, all those butch lesbians get even more manly with age. What is scarier is that the bears end up with furry boobs, which brings us back to my Aunt Paula. Or, maybe we should just leave that one alone.
As I approach a certain mid-century milestone, I have noticed certain changes. The biggest change is that I make sure everyone knows how old I am, and I don’t know why.
“How does this shirt look on me? I’m forty-nine years old.” “You can’t touch your toes? I can, and I’m forty-nine years old.” “I’ll take a pound of the Lebanese bologna and a half pound of macaroni salad. I’m forty-nine years old.”
Now, I have always said that if a day went by that someone didn’t mention my height that would be the day I died. I have yet to go for twenty-four hours without hearing anything similar to or actually the following:
“If someone Milton’s size were to attack you, what would you do?”
“Wow, your head just missed the door frame.”
And my favorite every time I get into a car: “That seat goes back further.” My reply is always, “It is back all the way.”
So, it isn’t enough that I am a freak, I have this incredible need to point out that I am also an old freak. As I said, I cannot help but tell everyone my age. I am like Marie Osmond on Dancing with the Stars, a show by the way I hate. Every night, she would tell Tom Bergeron, “I am forty-eight.” Finally, she said, “As a woman my age …” and he interrupted, “You are seventy-three, right?” Even he was sick of it.
Like Tom Bergeron, I am sick of hearing myself mention my age. Sometimes, I feel as if I am on the outside observing myself and wondering who this annoying age-obsessed moron is.
Have you ever found yourself doing something annoying repeatedly, and you don’t know why? Maybe all of us have a little bit of a split personality.
As I grow older, I am also obsessed with my aging body and especially my dropping testosterone levels. I read somewhere that peanut butter is good for maintaining good testosterone, which is why I am constantly standing in front of the cupboard with an open jar of Skippy’s and a soup spoon.
However, there are certain things you cannot stop. For example, my ass is a full three inches lower and much more jiggly than it was twenty years ago. If I go jogging, I think someone is tapping me on the shoulder, and I look as if I am smuggling sofa cushions. I have always had a big ass, and while it has been a curse at times, the blessing is that when I do turn eighty (and believe me, you will know when I turn eighty), my pants will still have a good shelf upon which to rest.
While women complain about falling boobs, men also experience the effects of gravity. Our balls drop. If I walk across a room naked, I get rug burns on my scrotum.
Then, there is the sex drive. That drops, too. The first sign that your sex drive has diminished is when you cannot answer the following question: “When was the last time you jerked off?” If you have to think about your masturbation schedule …
In your teens, the answer was always within an hour. In your twenties, the answer was usually no more than twelve hours. In your thirties, a day, maybe two. In your late forties, you can’t remember.
And although masturbation is good for prostate health, you still don’t have the energy – or the time – to do something for your own well being.
While all the above has happened to me, I am experiencing a strange phenomenon since moving into my mobile home.
I got rid of all my old drag wear, except for one pair of stilettos and Nana’s pearls. In addition, I now do a lot of physical manly things.
Even though I have been a life-long fitness nut, in the past year, I have taken my physical activities to a whole new level. First, there was Krav Maga, which now I am so obsessed with that if I miss a class, I do everything possible to make it up, even driving thirty miles to the sister facility to take a Sunday class. While I had no intention of completing the six-hour belt testing when I first signed up, now I am training to test to the next level in September. If I am partnered with a young guy in class who is out of breath while I am still going strong, I always ask how old he is then tell him how old I am. I never miss an opportunity to say, “I am forty-nine years old, and I can do this.”
I competed in one of those extreme obstacle courses where I sprained and broke my ankle, and now I have signed up for another one. “She’s a cool one; she’s returning to the scene of the crime,” said Ethel Mertz. The best part of these obstacle courses is that I get to compete in the Men 45+ category, which gives me another opportunity to tell everyone my age from the people assigning bibs and chips, to the woman with the walkie-talkie monitoring the race, to whoever is standing next to me at the starting line. None of them give a shit, but that doesn’t stop me.
Next year, I will be like Sally O’Malley on SNL – “I’m fifty! I can kick and stretch and kick again. I’m fifty!”
This past week, I was asked to participate in an experimental boot camp at my gym. Six people were asked, and they signed up, but only three of us showed up for the class. Two women in their thirties and I. You guessed it. I made sure they all knew how old I was. “Hi, I’m Milton. I’m forty-nine.”
Well, the class began with two trainers and three students. We did all this kettle ball stuff, and plank push-ups, and climbing stairs, and barbell push-ups with clean and jerks and other things I never saw before. I was enjoying being pushed to my limits and on the verge of cardiac arrest, but I whined more than a grounded teenager. After thirty minutes, they declared the class over. I said, “That’s all you got?”
Me and my big mouth. The trainer, who couldn't get over how I could whine for thirty minutes then ask for more, pushed me and pushed me. Straight guys may love me, but they like to try to break me, too!
I finally said, “I’m doing the best I can; I’m almost fifty. I’m just an old drag queen trying to maintain his figure.”
He said, “Who cares! Fifteen more!”
I did fifteen more. I was sweating so much he called me a puddle. He also congratulated me.
Afterward, I asked when the next class would be. He thought I was nuts but glad I wanted to come back.
I went home, took a shower in Irish Spring, put on some Old Spice, and drank a Pabst Blue Ribbon while sitting on my porch with my hound dog, Esmeralda.
The question though is when did I become so damn butch?
Is this mobile home emitting testosterone from the steel frame? Is my AMC Eagle not just a lesbian magnet but a lesbian maker? And, when did I buy a pack of wife beaters?
I think I need to go dress shopping. Any takers?
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