The Puddle of Middle Age

     There was a time when I wouldn't fruit my beer. It wasn't a manly thing to do. There was  also a time when I would only drink full-bodied beer. Sitting on an apartment porch that is covered in dog urine could be considered manly, maybe. It could. OK. OK, it's not. Yet, here I sit. A Corona Premier with a lime in one hand and a spray bottle of bleach-water in the other hand. Corona Premier is too wimpy to even be called a "light" beer. The yellow spots on the pee pads have a haunting presence.
     I light a dark wrapper cigar to regain a portion of my manhood. I don't have a hairy chest, but I do have a few hairs around my nipples.  Van  Halen plays on my playlist. So, there's that. Some semblance of testosterone is fighting its way through.  I guess. That's where I am at right now. A cigar and hairy nipples. I will enjoy the moment. I will embrace it. The cigar will eventually be gone and I may pluck my nipple hairs. Not to mention the fact that my playlist is on shuffle and the Village People are lurking somewhere in my catalog of iTunes. This moment needs to be embraced.
     My sons are becoming men. I should be covered in axle grease and smelling like a burning leaf pile. You know, man smells. They need to see me with busted knuckles from working on a carburetor from a '78 Thunderbird. Yet, I sit. I sit in the puddle that is middle age.
     Where did fearless Bubba go? I have to be careful gargling mouthwash so that it doesn't go down my windpipe only to be spewed on the mirror in the combination bathroom/closet. I am getting to the age of worrying about getting a paper cut from opening a Band-Aid. Who am I? I was going to be Evel Knievel. In all reality, I am turning into Morty Seinfeld. I get excited by cheese assortments. What happened to the guy that got in a fight at IHOP at 1AM on Thanksgiving night? Where did that guy go? What happened to the Bubba that got thrown out of "Carlos & Charlies" in Cozumel? What happened to the Bubba that proved that you could survive on popcorn and Milwaukee's Best?
     I just grabbed another Corona Premier. I put two slices of lime in it. I should probably lick the red hot end of the cigar to counteract that move. I used to throw caution to the wind. Now, I have favorite socks. John Denver's "Calypso" plays from my playlist. I think to myself "Football season can't start soon enough". I reshuffle the music. Foo Fighters, yes!
     What happens to us when we get older? Does life get better with age? Are hairy nipples enough? Do we really slow down and realize that sweatpants and bran cereal is where true happiness is found? I got into a discussion the other day about how homegrown tomatoes taste better than store bought tomatoes. I bet Evel Knievel never had that conversation.  I am slowly coming to the realization that there will never be a "Bubba Hamilton Action Figure". What kid would want an action figure with hair around his nipples?
     Maybe, I am getting to the age that I no longer want to chase life. Maybe, I just want to enjoy it. This cigar tastes great. The Corona is refreshing. The bleach/water mix does mask the smell of the urine. The Bee Gees are now playing. Barry Gibb's falsetto is actually soothing. Axle grease is overrated anyway. Bubba could have died in the IHOP. Evel Knievel would have enjoyed one of Maw Maw Richey's tomato and mayonnaise sandwiches made with homegrown tomatoes.
     I will eventually go inside. I will pluck the hairs from my around my nipples. I will slice the shit out of some limes for my beer and I will dig my favorite socks out of the drawer. I will reminisce of the old Bubba. But, I will embrace the new Bubba. The Bubba that is looking forward to middle age and the sweatpants that he will adorn. Yes, he will wear those sweatpants while getting excited about the cheese assortment that waits for him Over Yonder.