Age and the Monkey Man

Twenty-eight years old and I'm already experiencing unexplained maladies.

Years of self-abuse (no snickering, please) have apparently led to a minor body revolt. For the past 16 hours, I've had a giant monkey fist pounding on the muscles under my right shoulder blade. Primates--especially those with big fists--are no joke, my friends.

I never have been a big fan of my physical form. In my teens, I was too skinny. The biggest things on my body were my nose and my nipples. Then, while I was in college, my toes started getting wider. That was frightening. You look down at your Birkenstocked feet and your toes look like bratwurst. It only got worse when my beer belly grew so large that I had to start leaning over to look at my sausage toes.

After college, I went through a period of self-betterment. The beer gut got smaller (somewhat anyway), the poofy nipples became less of as issue (no gym class for the working class), and I started hanging out with Karl Malden look-alikes to make my nose look smaller.

My toes still look like italian sausages.

But this monkey fist thing is a new issue. Before, I just didn't like my body. Now my body doesn't like me.

My hair (an adornment, if you listen to some of my colleagues) has ceased cooperating with me. My back is sending quick messages that I may not enjoy the next 50 or so years. My knees make a curious creaking noise when I bend down to pet the dog.

I'm 28 years old and 38 isn't sounding so good.

I am the Monkey Man, my friends. Goo-goo-ga-choo.

Editor's note: A quick HELLO to all the new readers who have recently found Rapid Eye Reality. I'm not quite sure how you're all arriving here, but all the new e-mails and comments on the blog are quite welcome. That includes a helpful physical therapy hint on how to deal with my monkey fist.