Today, dear ladies, we are here to learn about an issue that is of the utmost sensitivity to your male minion — Age. Or, more appropriately, ageing. First and foremost, no jokes about men, ageing and wine. There’s nothing we haven’t heard before. And to be honest, we men don’t like the jokes because growing old is rather tough for us. We embrace ageing like a cat embraces water: absolutely not. Denial doesn’t even begin to describe the range of emotions that go through a man when he is trying to cope with the concept of ageing.
The trouble is that we have a lot of fun when we are young. Then puberty strikes and unlike with women, who have a maturing experience, we just come out fifty shades uglier and hairier and with a voice we never entirely recognise. And from there on, it only gets worse. Some of us try to take control, making a vain effort to prove that things aren’t all that bad and that age has given us more strength and zeal. Look around in your group and I am sure you know one mate who runs marathons and cycles endlessly on weekends. He also probably holds forth on heart rates and activity monitors. And I only know for certain because in my group, that social reject is me.
But we would rather do that than admit to the truth — that most of us were never handsome and are with time withering away. Only George Clooney ages the way he does, making me wonder if he’s actually growing younger and might end up a rebellious teenager in the next decade.
Women, you handle it much better. You also have a billion dollar cosmetics industry that has you, pun unintended, covered. But with the advent of botox and reconstruction surgeries being conducted without as much as wasting a breath, there is a lot that you are allowed to deploy to fight off ageing. Sure, you can deny it, but I am yet to see a poor cosmetic surgeon, so I guess things must be going better than fine for them.
But how many men can ever nurture that option? A man goes for something like that after he’s been in an accident involving land mines and even then he just wants a modest patch up. In light of such, our insecurity only festers and grows within. We try to channelise it (the marathons, the 80s theme birthdays, the binge drinking nights out), but each time our system only serves to remind us that the body clock doesn’t ever stop and even when it slows down, it is still ticking away.
So, what is a man to do? He can’t wear make-up, there are no corsets for the growing mid-reaches and any cosmetic surgery would be ludicrous to even suggest. In short, if anyone needs help with ageing, it is us men.
Consider this then, dear women, a sincere request to try and ease the shockwaves of God’s most lethal blow yet. Be considerate the day he rides home on a Harley, or signs up for a 10K or maybe subscribes to GQ and starts wearing polka dots — these are all signs that denial is underway. Tell him how good he looks and how fit he is and give him a pat on the back for still being around, still responsibly shouldering the family’s issues and concerns and still not turning senile while acquiring that old people smell.
The writer is a lover of wine, song and everything fine
