Fifteen years ago I had a single chest hair. Char plucked it out. I wasn’t sure I would ever forgive her for that, because I’d waited thirty five damned years for chest hair, and within a blink Mz. Horny Hands ripped it right out.

I realized when I turned forty that it had grown back. So did a farking forest of other hair. Now instead of being annoyed that she plunked one wayward hair I’m wondering how badly it would itch to engage in a full body shave.

Fifteen years ago I also had roughly 3-5% body fat and the idiotic assumption that as long as I maintained the same level of activity, as long as I continued with martial arts, weight training, and running, that Char would be able to bounce quarters off my ass well into my eighties. Today, (because I married the food nazi) I eat better than I did fifteen years ago and I am just as active, I’m still in shape, but the six pack has faded to four and my navel has depth to it, and I’m a cup size away from having moobs.

My weight hasn’t changed much, which is marginally comforting because face it, for every 30 pounds you gain your junk loses an inch and I’m certain that would bother Char more than the moobs.

The only reason I’m thinking about this right now; Char has been going through photographs she’s taken over the years (she is a gifted photographer) and showed some of them to the kids. She shot a series of photographs of me not too long after we got married. And in most of them I’m shirtless (no she did not show that picture to the kids), working out, or jogging. At first none of the kids believed that was even me, but once Char convinced them that the exhibitionist in the photographs was their father, Rachel looked up and asked me sincerely What happened?

Someone remind me again why I wanted kids so badly. And someone give me a damned Ding Dong. If I’m losing the body I might as well enjoy it.