DISCLAIMER: The following is a frank discussion of a bodily function for the purposes of philosophy. Those of you repulsed by either, please don't read.
(New York-NY) It's not gray hair, beginning to surround my temples and most of my head(s), that I fear is telling me I'm aging. It isn't even me having to say, "What did you say?" if I'm listening to someone with more than two other people talking around me in a bar. It's flatulence control.
It always bewildered and enraged me why my old man would just rip thunder when I could clandestinely emit flatus with the virtuoso control of a master horn blower. Yes, back in the day, at 25, I could handle a fart like a breast; gingerly, but with just enough force to show us both who was boss and arouse us both as well.
Then gradually my instrument, to extend the metaphor, began to betray me, first alone in bed trying to coax out a massive gas pocket. Sure, being alone, I could let it rip. But you have to keep in practice. Somewhere I either read or just made up that Ron Jeremy in his prime used to masturbate 16-20 times a day. I fear going blind just thinking about that, forget even the chafing.
So back to me in bed with gas, I noticed the first salvo, normally the hanging curve to hit out of the park, would slip away from me, like a catcher bobbling a knuckle ball. (See, I can use sports metaphors too.)Then, I'd be walking on the sidewalk, making sure no one was less than ten yards behind me (that's flatus courtesy), and let loose what I thought would be a quite burst. To my surprise, it turned out to be a windowpane rattler. The poor kid in the MacLaren stroller behind me got so scared he spit his Cheerios out like a shotgun blast drive by in Compton circa 1991. Lucky his Mom was too busy on the Crackberry to notice. But I digress.
That example was an object lesson. I thought I was in control. My initial push misjudged the amount of force needed to coax out the flatus and then coast it like a Razor downhill. And today, I won't even attempt the Evel Knievel like stunt of trying to coax one out while I'm in bed with an invited guest…or even an uninvited one. Ah for the halcyon days of the Dutch Oven. Remember guys?
Now, it's to the point where I can't trust my skill. Last week, I was walking down the street and had to let go. I didn't even bother to coax it out like the Ed of old. I just let it rip. And I noticed something even more unsettling. I don't even want to be the flatus maestro anymore. I don't have the patience. I just want to let it rip.
Even typing it feels satisfying. Is this a sign of age or, even more disturbing, the lack of patience to work through problems that aging entails? Am I on the path to my Old Man, who, perhaps, with each trumpet of methane was saying, "Screw it. I'm old. I don't have time for this?" Taken further, the Oldsters who let flow the Yangtze at will bathroom be damned, is that an even more extreme physical message of "I'm old. I don't have time for this?"
Okay, if you're still reading and I imagine some of you are not, I'll be even more honest. What's really bothering is that my cunnilingus ability, once on a level with a master safecracker or top seated Sebring driver downshifting two gears seamlessly on a 30 degree turn to pick up speed for a dash to the finish, is in direct correlation to my inability to fart with art. Is the lack of ability to control one's gas the first sign of decline to lack of sexuality and finally lack of control of one's destiny or more to the point not caring about controlling one's destiny?
I'd like to work on this question a little more. But I keep thinking I don't have time for this. And I just lifted up and ripped rolling thunder, and it feels so good, like I really accomplished something.
Any men or women out there who happen to read this, I'd like to know your thoughts. I'm not trying to be adolescent, really.