‘Tis the Season. The time for a plethora of regurgitated “You Know You’re Turning Forty When…” jokes. You may have heard a few of these. “Your new easy chair has more options than your car.” “People call you at 9 pm and ask if they woke you up.” “Conversations with people your own age become a duel of ailments.” Typical amateur-hour, tongue-in-cheek humor. I will admit that the last of those hits rather close to home though.
To the satisfaction of Hallmark cards and Spencer Gifts stores everywhere, I always had this mental image of hitting my 40th much like a train slowly cresting the top of a mountain. Sluggishly decelerating, following the last desperate attempts to retain the youthfulness of my 30ish body and mindset. Looking over my shoulder one last time on my three decade ascent, before rounding the top and officially declaring my youth a DOA. I envisioned that the accompanying post-summit descent would start slowly and pick up momentum as the years passed.
What I hadn’t expected though, was for my body to completely jump the tracks as it neared the top and meteor violently towards the Earth in a blazing death spiral. Then again, my life has always seemed firmly planted in the oft-magical world of fate and irony. It has a lifelong public record of ad-libbing and creating its own satirical punch-lines when the prospect of self-humiliation presents itself.
Said tracks came out from underneath of me a few weekends ago. My father, father-in-law, and I spent an entire day installing new vinyl railing on my front porch. It was a lot of running up and down stairs, cutting, drilling, squatting, and more running up and down stairs. We put in some long hours that day, but managed to get the majority of it completed. It was only after I had developed the inguinal hernia a day or two later, that it became apparent my body was of the firm belief that it was more a two or three day job.
Precisely. A hernia less than three weeks before my 40th birthday. f course, when people ask how it happened, I don’t have that riveting, extreme-sports story to fall back on. The one where I walk away from an insanely perilous stunt…with only a hernia and bruised ego. No skydiving with a snowboard, no kayaking over a waterfall, and no participating in the “Running of the Bulls” with a red jumpsuit. Not in the cards. Somehow, hernia via vinyl rail installation just seems to lack that overall manly luster and accompanying prestige.
Truthfully, in the back of my mind, I always thought there was a common misconception about hernias only happening to “older gentlemen who still think they’re athletes”. Apparently not. They also happen to “older gentlemen who overdo home improvement projects”. “Man law” blasphemy defined…
Ringing in my birthday with such mockingly dark overtones is exactly what I should have expected. I make it a habit to approach life with a belief once penned by an 18th century Danish philosopher. To that point, I have decided to travel my remaining 30s with a snare drum and cymbal attached to my side for the opportunistic rim shot. Oh, and a pre-recorded laugh-track on standby.
Life has emphatically announced that there will be no slow and orderly descent into my 40s. My tranquil Hallmark vision of cresting that mountaintop gracefully was quickly replaced by the unpleasant image of a rusty car transmission seizing up one day before the warranty expires. Now well-versed on this pending expiration date, I’ve added both Kevlar and a hard hat to my birthday wish list.
After seeing a host of doctors, it was determined that surgery was required. Days of hounding them incessantly and laying on the urgency of “getting me fixed quick”, I finally received a call on my surgery date. Rim shot, please. The day of my 40th birthday. Cue laugh-track. But wait, it gets better. Not only on the same day, mind you…but at the exact time of my birth as well. Red flags and premonitions abound! Good luck penning this one, Hallmark!
Reminded on a daily basis of just how eerily unpredictable irony and fate can be, my superstitions got the better of me. I quickly rescheduled the surgery for August. I'm abruptly equipped with this newly-mangled mental image of turning 40...and this dark, celestial alignment of events was scheduled to take place on my birthday as well as my exact time of birth?
Maybe I have seen too many “Twilight Zone” episodes as a kid or too many “Final Destination” films. I’m thinking “Man has uneasy premonition and doesn’t get on plane. Plane explodes upon takeoff.” Just go ahead and substitute “surgery” and “hernia” in that sentence wherever you see fit.
When all of this is over, I plan on shopping my chilling account to Spielberg and DreamWorks Studios. Although in the end, Pixar just may be the better fit.
Maybe I have seen too many “Twilight Zone” episodes as a kid or too many “Final Destination” films. I’m thinking “Man has uneasy premonition and doesn’t get on plane. Plane explodes upon takeoff.” Just go ahead and substitute “surgery” and “hernia” in that sentence wherever you see fit.
