However, I do have the vague notion that I haven't been complaining about nearly enough things recently - in fact sometimes I have been almost sentimental or even (cue: sharp intake of breath) happy about life. Inspired by my favourite (and, bless his cotton socks, increasingly curmudgeonly) writer, I think it's about time that I shared a few life issues which have me wishing that I had a rest button which could whisk me back to having the body and mind of a thirty year-old.
- Underwear. I don't know exactly what's going on with my underwear, but I suspect that somebody, somewhere is having a laugh at my expense. Over the last year or two, I've found that my undies are becoming increasingly uncomfortable. Now, I'd love to report that it's a direct result of my man sausage being so magnificent, but alas, I have not been so gifted. There's a tiny chance that the frequent pinching of elasticated support bits (such as: right at this bloody MOMENT!) may have something to do with my current hobby of laying down layers of lipids on my already generously-sized derriere, but I take far more comfort from the idea that small, invisible beings are messing with my male support. That idea is certainly more comfortable than just about every pair of undies in my possession...
- Toenails. Toenails? Yes: toenails. Mine are doing a couple of things which I find distinctly incommodious. Firstly, they are getting further away. Lately I'm finding that I can only reach them once or twice a week, and usually on days when I don't have any need to. Either my legs are getting longer, or my arms are getting shorter - both of which are faintly alarming thoughts. Secondly, my toenails are taking on the properties of sheet metal/armour-piercing projectiles. On those rare occasions when the planets align, when I haven't eaten a large meal and - funny how this coincides - when my arms and legs are being their normal lengths, I do try to keep the little buggers trimmed so as to avoid those appallingly annoying hangnail-in-the-sock moments (another of life's intolerable frustrations). However, my efforts to do so seem to be involving more and more physical effort, and at times it feels as if I'm trying to cut the fence wire at Stalag Luft 23 using a pair of...well...nail clippers. After a superhuman effort, and a mere nanosecond before the clippers disintegrate in my hands, I'm rewarded with a rifle shot 'crack!' followed by the sound of an endlessly ricochet-ing chunk of hardened keratin. It's getting so bad, I'm starting to wear a welder's mask to protect my eyes.
- Tongue-biting. I have no idea why this happens - after all, I've been eating solid food for at least forty nine years now, and you'd think that I'd have the hang of not clamping my tongue between my teeth, wouldn't you? Not so, however - but here's the thing about this: it seems to happen in waves. Once in a while I'll bite down on my own flesh, reflexively open my jaws and stifle a howl of pain. So far, so bad - shit happens, after all. BUT (pause here for a scream of incandescent rage), why do I then do the same thing twice a day - with increasing levels of pain each time - for the next four or five days, in EXACTLY the same spot? And then, why do I suddenly stop doing it? There has to be a lucrative research grant for studying this sort of thing...
- People. never the most forgiving person on the planet, my tolerance of some types of people (or behaviour) continues to wane. Currently, my antipathy is most acutely reserved for the following: drama queens, young people who only get their information from each other rather than from trustworthy sources and are therefore surprised ("Oh my God-ah!")by the kinds of facts that I learned from books forty years ago, Canadian drivers (all of them: I've decided that the good ones are so thinly spread, they are statistically irrelevant), religious nuts who refuse to acknowledge that believing in an invisible and silent being is not a rational act - yet will consider a piece of interestingly burned toast to be a miraculous communication, anyone who considers Donald Trump to be a rational human being, anyone working in retail who doesn't make eye contact when serving me, waitresses who decide to have a five minute conversation because their life is so incredibly interesting, train drivers who think it's fun to sound their horn twenty two times as they pass through town in the middle of the night, car sales persons (all of them: pathological liars) and of course: stupid people.
- My digestive tract. Named here for its outstanding capability to produce methane from any kind - repeat, any kind - of organic matter, usually at socially inappropriate moments.
That's probably enough personal issues to be going on with for now - after all, I have to save myself for future meanderings in print...anyway I've just bitten my tongue while farting in polite company, and reflexively kicked the dog with a sharp toenail. Perhaps I shouldn't have worn that old, very restrictive pair of underpants.