I recently had 4 cysts removed. 3 on my scalp and 1 on my back. They were not cancerous or anything serious, just cosmetic. Cosmetic. I’m 42 with a thinning hair line with an aggressively progressing gray streak. I am not a fat ass but I would never be confused with Ryan Gosling. Since I’ve been snowed in for a week, I’ve had time to deliberate why I had these removed as I artfully hold ice packs on my head with a tight fitting beanie cap. And it’s just simple vanity. I didn’t want to be called “Captain Lumpy Head”, or “Humpy McHumpback.” Combined these 4 cysts wouldn’t amount to the size of a cherry tomato, but in my mind metaphorically they were each golf ball sized. As my hair continues to recede I didn’t want the bumps to continue to protrude. When I go to the pool or beach with the kids I didn’t want my back bump to be an eyesore. Clearly these things were more measurable than my pale stick legs and man boobs. As I continue to progress into my soft middle-aged self, I suppose this was one last ditch effort to maintain whatever dignity I have left.
But it begs the bigger question of why people beyond their 40’s have plastic surgery or do strictly cosmetic procedures like Botox. Mother Nature has proven over time that she will win out despite anyone’s most earnest attempts to unseat her. Most at this age are married, have kids, and should really just be focused on survival. We should be able to enjoy eating good food and top shelf drinks that we’ve worked so hard to attain. We have to put up with pain in the ass children and dipshit bosses all week, we deserve these amenities. But we are still primal animals by nature, and people still prefer to be seen as attractive, first, before the fact they are successful, or smart, or funny. Isn’t it cooler to be True Detective Rust Cohle than a Nobel Prize winner. Why? No woman in her late 20’s or 30’s is gonna look at me and be amazed by my physical presence, and it’s not because I don’t drive a Lincoln (as a side note, I entertain myself for hours impersonating his voice in these commercials!). And a woman in her 40’s who might be single or a divorcee would simply look at me as, well, alive. She could be dead and have no one, but I have a pulse, a fairly quick wit and I’m not a bus driver. Hence, I can afford to spoil her with such luxuries as a steak dinner at Glory Days or a friendship bracelet from Zales.
The one sanctuary me and all other middle aged men still have is the strip club. I can strut in with my 3 20’s and $15 in singles and go right up to the hottest girl in the joint and get some action. Because all the women there are contractually obligated to treat you like a young John Stamos. I can typically outbid the nearest Aqua Velva who is there with a bunch of his frat bros, and the girls know that. But even that doesn’t feel right, mainly because I could be a father to most of the young women in there. Aspiring young attorneys that they are.
So when will I grow up and just deal with what I’ve become? Get my annual checkup to make sure I’m not dying too early and can someday enjoy retirement. Enjoy my middle class home with my great kids and my loving wife who for some reason ignores all of my physical limitations and actually loves me despite the fact I’m a total fuckup. Maybe that life doesn’t make an interesting episode of True Detective, but it could be worse. Now I have 4 scars to remind me.
2 vienna dads 