Unfit Father

Published on May 13th, 2016 | by Richard Black

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Thoughts in the Shower at Three in the Morning

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Yeah I’m deep like that.

Last night I found myself at three in the morning in the shower for the third time inside of twelve hours. One might ask why a man of sound mind and body would choose to shower every four hours. It’s a reasonable question and, fortunately, I have a reasonable answer. Mother Nature hates me.

Most people look forward to Spring the longer and warmer days but not me. The onset of Spring and all of it’s unseemly spoogeing herald the beginning of Spring allergies. Many consider the season to be a sign of rebirth and renewal. I greet it with the knowledge that someday in the future, perhaps forty years from now, I’ll be gasping my last breath in a hospice bed because Mother Nature can’t keep her pollen in her pants.

Every year around the end of April and the beginning of May I’m plagued by Spring and the results of her promiscuity. It starts with a little sniffle before I quickly begin producing snot on an industrial level. I sneeze every fifteen minutes, I cough and wheeze and gag and choke and just as it all comes to a close my nasal cavity clogs up like a toilet in Grand Central Station.

I’ve tried various treatments but not much works. I can pop Benadryl and Allegra like Tic Tacs or snort nasal irrigation remedies through my nose like Axl Rose hoovers up coke to little effect. The only remedy that provides any measure of relief is a long, steaming hot shower and my reason for taking a number of them within a small amount of time.

I used to like showers as a boy and took them quite often. Most teenage boys are enthusiastic showerers. I myself “showered” twice and sometimes three or four times a day. There were even times when an actual shower wasn’t even involved.

These days showering is a more functional and far less enjoyable task, an opportunity to take stock of the ravages the years have had upon my increasingly fat, frail and grotesque form. Even at its best the male form is really quite utilitarian and aging hasn’t done me, or it, any favors.

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Ladies and gentlemen allow me to introduce Baby Chad. Baby Chad say hi to the ladies and gentlemen.

Unfortunately after I’d shampooed everything and even did it again per the instructions of the bottle there was a lot of time to fill. The steam had yet to work its magic and instead of pleasuring myself (because I’m not fourteen and have some of self control as well as the good taste not to bring up masturbation in a serious piece like this)  I took stock of the most recent indignities I’d suffered from aging.

My gut was immediately apparent. I didn’t always have one. In fact back when I was in my twenties I had a six pack, weighed around 170 and had an overall pretty ripped body. Now I’ve got a stomach that I have to suck in when I’m naked if I want to see my penis. This, by the way, should not be construed as a comment about the length, breadth or width of my wang and more of one about my protruding stomach. Then again I’m an optimist and really more of a grower than a shower.

The good news is that my increasing girth is a potentially solvable issue. If I choose to do so I could diet and lift some weights to remedy the gut situation. I could even look into liposuction, fad diets, sketchy techniques to fry fat with lasers or even freeze it away. I could even attack the other end of the problem and look into penis enlargement techniques. A larger member would go quite a long way towards making my gut much less of an issue.

Unfortunately, I’m also confronted with a more difficult problem. I’m sure that there’s a perfectly sound evolutionary reason as to why my eyebrows and portions of my ear have developed thick growths of wiry hair. In addition to keeping perspiration out of my eyes or providing my ear canal with a modicum of protection against noveau country music these unwanted thickets have the additional benefit of rendering me unattractive to anyone other than my wife more or less guaranteeing that I’ll be around to tend to both her and my daughter.

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The reason my daughter will be spending the next twelve years in boarding school.

Of course that’s only one side of the hair issue. I’ve got too much of it in places where it shouldn’t be and not enough where it might actually be beneficial. My daughter had the misfortune of noticing the thinning conditions on the top of my head a few days ago and said something to the effect of “Daddy you’re really, really going bald.” It was a sad moment and made even more because it sparked my decision to send her to boarding school for the next twelve years. I’ll miss her of course. These sorts decisions aren’t easy ones to make but it’s probably for the best.

As if I wasn’t already incredibly demoralized enough I decided, upon exiting the shower, to give myself a look in a full body mirror. It remains one of the worst decisions I’ve ever made to date and this is coming from a man who had a mullet well into the 1990s.

“Holy shit I’ve really let myself go,” was the first of many thoughts to rip through my mind.

“When did I get these hairy bitch tits?” was another.

“It looks like I’ve got Buckwheat in a leglock” was the last before I stumbled my way over to a towel.

The damage however was already done. I couldn’t help but notice that the bags under my eyes were large enough to mule a kilo of heroin, perhaps two, assuming the customs agents weren’t looking all that hard. The creases under my eyes bore an uncanny resemblance to topographical maps representing the tributaries of the Grand Canyon. I think I even noticed a liver spot or two as well.

This is what I look like after I take a shower and inventory my physical decline. This is also my sex face.

The real horror, I thought and just before I cried myself to sleep, is that these are the conditions I’ve been able to note on the outside of my body. God know what’s going on in the inside but if the outside is any indication then there’s probably a lot of hair where it shouldn’t be amongst a lot of other unpleasantness.

Growing old is really a depressing proposition and there are many who say that it beats the alternative. Unfortunately I’ve never heard of anyone coming back from the grave to laud being dead but, in all fairness, it might just be so wonderful that billions and billions of dead people are just so enamored with the condition that they haven’t had time to report back.

Until I have further evidence I’ll withhold my judgment. In the meantime I’m going to drink a six pack and take another shower. My nose is already clogging up and, now that I think about it, these shoulders aren’t going to shave themselves.

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