No Comfort for Old Men
There’s a certain dignity that comes with age, a composure delivered in the mail along with one’s inescapable maturity. Having completed another successful orbit of the sun yesterday, I decided to exercise my self-appointed rights to be a carefree hedonist in the face of crushing responsibilities and duties. How does one find ways to carve a certain reckless individuality within the confines of our conformist culture? Allow me to chronicle my ham-handed efforts.
I began by leaving work in the middle of the afternoon. Champions League matches were on and, armed with today’s portable communications devices, one is happily able to take the office across the street to the Arms for a little Irish work. After a few glasses and concerned that things could go too long and become too enjoyable, I split for dinner with the family, allowing my bossy elder son to choose the restaurant to save everyone the aggro of his disappointment at anyone else’s suggestions. It was a testament to my maturity as I maintained composure when he dropped his milkshake on the floor, sending glass shards every which way.
Following negotiations for an appropriate bedtime where I represented management admirably against stiff opposition from labour’s pint-sized reps, I decided to clear out and celebrate sensibly with the lads and a game of footie. Me and T-Unit made our way to the bowels of downtown and found we were ahead of schedule. O happy day –there was a pub open and we took a pair of stools in sniffers’ row. It was no strip club but the tap directly in front of us was for some stuff named Peeler and the wait staffers were having tremendous difficulty keeping their ample bosoms inside their plunging necklines. Too bad we only had time for a swift one before kickoff, which was set for 11:15pm. Ouch.
To the pitch we took against Grecian opponents who seemed intent on recreating the battle of Salamis, casting us as the doomed Persians. They probably didn’t bother to make the distinction that I was wearing a Turkish Ilhan Mansis jersey while my team mates were all decked out in Liverpool crimson. There was a mighty clash of 30-somethings representing the lowest tier of men’s six-a-side dome soccer, many of whom were north of the weight limit and well south of the body image set by Adonis. The Greeks scored twice in the first half and some of that surely has to be blamed on the Tories. Thankfully, the natural ruling side put in a sparkling second half repleat with a brace of our own goals (note: not own-goals, for which I am a specialist) and the game ended with a hard-fought level score.
To celebrate our good fortune we repaired to the public house, wherein they serve ale and meat to worthy combatants. After some inspection of their pint glasses and their nacho platters, and given that the hour was already 1:30am, we parted ways. Finding my bed at last by 2:00, I went to sleep a little older and smugly satisfied. In the morning, however, my ankles barely permitted me to walk ten steps and with each one my thigh muscle made a sound like peeling your foot off a sticky cinema floor. I think my future mobility is going to require that all buildings be outfitted with ramps.
