From Connoisseur to Dinosaur

Ever since I was a young man, I had always admired guys, 50 years old and above, for their wisdom and urbanity. The way they carry their clothes, the manner they finger-comb their silver hair. And they always manage to make the most appropriate statements in conversations. Their air of confidence automatically elicits approval and respect from men and women of all ages. For a lanky teenager whose sole claim to consistency is being clumsy all the time, 50-year-old men were like icons worth emulating. I couldn’t wait to be fifty.

Finally, a few months ago, I turned fifty. Sadly, however, I felt no surge of wisdom welling up my being. All I experienced was a noticeable change in my urination rhythm, probably signaling the onset of prostate problems commonly associated with men "my age". Sigh. It took me thirty-five years of waiting to realize I was a loser. Oh well, I guess that realization is wisdom enough.

At fifty, some men’s hair start turning gray while some lose their hair altogether. I don’t know whether I’m cursed or blessed because God decided to let me experience both. My gray hair is thinning so fast I already have a bald spot on my pate. Bad hair day was a common occurrence during my youth because of my wavy tresses (I belong to the hippie era, man). Now when I wake up, I have to gather all the hairs I shed during night to determine if I’ll be having a bad hair day.

Sports was one of two major preoccupations during my younger days. I could play basketball the whole day and still have lots of energy to indulge in my other preoccupation: dating girls. I remember girls admiring my abs, which were not only very firm but flat as a washboard then. These days, girls tell me my tummy looks as if I swallowed the day’s laundry. Thinking about engaging in sports makes my head ache. What do you expect? Walking to the corner store ten meters away gives me body pains and makes my breathing sound like that of an obscene caller.

When I was in my thirties, girls I get introduced to ask me whether I’m married or not. In my forties, they ask me if I’m separated. These days, the girls I meet ask me if I have unmarried, grown-up sons I can set them up with. From lover to matchmaker is a long way–downhill.

I have this theory that the most important events in a man’s life happen in his first twenty years. How else can you explain the fact that I can still vividly recall how I was beaten up by the class bully when I was in grade 2 and yet I can’t remember where I put the car keys I was holding five minutes ago? Remembering important dates and appointments are even more taxing. I almost forgot the deadline for this article.

Don’t start me on technology. If I were a caveman, I wouldn’t know what to do with a wooden club. I am just beginning to learn how to operate my daughter’s old Discman player and here comes the iPod. Dinosaurs like me have no place in this technology-driven world. It’s enough to drive a man into depression. Such was the predicament I was in when I lay beside my sleeping wife. If there’s anything that can get me out of this funk, it is good, old conjugal sex. She was startled when I hugged her and started whispering dirty words in her ear. "But we just had sex an hour ago!" she protested. We did? Oh, yeah. Whoa! That was enough to cheer me up. My wife, who’s fourteen years younger than me, can’t keep up with my sexual prowess. I’m a 50 year-old sex machine!

Turning 50 is like a death knell for the menfolk of our clan. Males in our family lead relatively short lives. My father was 64 when he died and he was one of the longer-lived ones. My brother was 49 when he kicked the bucket. But that doesn’t bother me now. I enjoy whatever life has to offer. I’m a connoisseur of life. It’s not the destination that matters, but how you took the trip. Or words to that effect. I forgot the exact quotation.

What do you expect? I’m 50.

The author is a prize-winning cartoonist, and the editorial cartoonist of The STAR.