When I grow up I want to be Benjamin Button
Iaccidentally stumbled upon one of my favourite movies from the ’90s on Netflix the other day. Netflix is run by a bunch of sadists: when you start typing the name of any movie in the search field, it has a predictive text that completes the title of the movie — but this doesn’t necessarily mean they have it. It’s often just their sweet way of saying, “Ag shame man, you want to watch The Godfather Part II? We know about it but we don’t have it.” So, you can imagine how pleasantly surprised I was to discover that they have the 1997 flick The Devil’s Advocate .A bright, up-and-coming lawyer (Keanu Reeves) is mentored by a wily, unscrupulous attorney (Al Pacino) who turns out to be none other than the devil himself. The very last line in the movie is delivered by El Diablo: “Vanity — definitely my favourite sin.”
Vanity. It’s quite a thing. This is especially true once one reaches that magical age, 40. Tell me if this sounds familiar: you’re introduced to someone for the first time at a party. OK, work with me here, people — pretend this is happening before we all walked around looking like ninjas. When the other person is in their mid-40s, it doesn’t take two minutes before they ask you to guess how old they are.
The correct answer is, “You can’t be older than 35.”
We all know the formula: how old they look (50) minus 10 years, and minus another five just to be safe = 35 years. You give them the 35 years BS with a side order of fried lies, their chests puff up like a vetkoek with too much yeast and they go, “I’m actually 44, believe it or not.” The only appropriate response is to open your eyes wide: “Nooo! Get outta here!”
The reason I’m so conversant with this phenomenon is because, about six years ago, I was the puffed up vetkoek I’m talking about. After being visibly overweight for most of my 30s and early 40s, I decided that the toad look had carried me as far as it could. I allowed my vanity to take control and I embarked on a regimen of regular brisk walking and the elimination of beer from my liquid diet. I managed to shed about 17kg in less than a year. I’d run into folks I hadn’t seen in a while and the popular refrain would be, “Dude, are you aging backwards?”
Unfortunately, having folks lie to you about your Benjamin
Buttonness doesn’t save you from the inevitable breaking down of the body and faculties after 45. For instance, no-one warned me that by age 49 I’d have to void my bladder every two hours — day or night. I’m at that age when I plan my life around proximity to the nearest bathroom. And I know where it comes from: all the goddamned water I have to drink every day. Don’t get me started on the number of pills you have to take every morning to keep yourself out of the emergency room.
And do you remember applauding your infant’s poops after a bout of constipation? You open the nappy, see the mess, squeak in delight and start high-fiving his tiny hand. Anyone who’s been with the same partner for 20 years knows that bowel-movement discussions take up at least 10% of your daily conversations.
If you’re sufficiently silly to ask: “If your marital conversations are so poop-intensive, when do you find time for romance?”, slap yourself hard. Romance leads to intimacy. Intimacy often leads to an amorous nocturnal scrum. And that business always leads to cramps, limps and about three days to recuperate. And Lord forbid you should go twice in one evening. Do not pass Begin, go straight to the physiotherapist’s rooms for rehabilitation.
The same goes for being idiotic enough to sit on one of those comfortable deep couches in people’s houses. Standing up afterwards requires lying on one side and rolling out. I have learnt to shake my head vigorously when offered a seat on those, and say: “I’ll be fine sitting on that beer crate, screw you very much.”
All of this says nothing about the state of constant belligerence at this stage. I’m currently eight months into a feud with a friend. My biggest problem at this point is that I don’t quite remember the source of the quarrel. But we all know that the root of the word “belligerence” is from ancient Aztec, the literal meaning being “stubborn old goat”.
The reason that I’m so conversant with this phenomenon is because, about six years ago, I was the puffed up vetkoek I’m talking about