My Body. It's Changing.

I can't pinpoint the exact date I started noticing it because, in all honesty, I think it's been a gentle change. Maybe when I was 23. Maybe last summer. I don't know. All I do know is that I can tell I'm getting older, because my body is starting to retreat.

Remember when we were younger and could ride bikes for three hours, play an impromptu game of kickball and go swimming for the rest of the day? Me neither, since, you know, I didn't grow up in 1950's Brooklyn, but you know what I mean. Back then we were impervious to the affects of any extra physical exertion. Our bodies were like erasers, you could bend them and they'd just bounce right back.

Now, on occasion, I find myself gingerly hobbling down the stairs some mornings only to think to myself, "Why the fuck am I so sore?" Then it hits me. "Oh, right, I ran up the escalator to catch my train."

Time also is taking its toll on my appearance. There are many mornings where bags form under my eyes. I notice a few hairs on my back that weren't there before -- not tons, just a few stragglers. The hairline is starting to recede. The beer belly is a little more prevalent.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. It's just a simple fact that getting older means some change. It's kind of like anti-puberty. And it wouldn't be appropriate for me to complain either, since I don't exactly subscribe to the theory of treating my body like a temple. (Yea, good work liver. Proudofyou.)

Not only am I not complaining, but I am actually starting to enjoy it. My face no longer looks like a chubby newborn's, My gait is a little slower and a little more defined. My face looks like it has experience, like it can handle the big promotion, deliver the big project, accept the big raise. I look a little more distinguished, if you can believe that, as in, I wouldn't look rediculous if I clutched a tumbler of scotch -- not that I would.

I just don't look like a kid anymore.

So, while getting older may kind of suck, looking older is not so bad.

Then again, talk to me in 10 years, while I am in the midst of a full-blown mid-life crisis -- like "Dating 19-year-old strippers and buying convertibles" crisis. Then we'll really see.

(Oh, and by the way, this is my 100th blog post. Not too bad. Thanks to the three of you who have really stuck with me through the past, you know, four months. I promise to keep drinking and acting like an idiot if you promise to keep reading. Deal? Good.)