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Historically, I have been apathetic toward the milestone birthday. Eighteen meant nothing to me as I didn’t use tobacco products and wasn’t stoked to throw my name in a jury pool. Twenty-one had a little more flare, but I was already a mainstay on the San Marcos bar scene thanks to a world class fake ID and an irrational level of confidence matched only by guys in tuxedoes hitting the local bars after a wedding. But as I sit here refreshing my Accuweather radar wondering how much more rain my lawn will get, life is coming at me fast. I’m on the precipice of my mid-thirties, and the paradigm is shifting.
I don’t want this to be another “I’m aging and life is different now!” piece, so let’s just look at a few admissions made by some very close friends that have me rattled.
First, shit hit the fan very recently when it came to light that one of the members of a longstanding group text was diagnosed with low-T. That’s low testosterone for the unlearned. His body, his poor, sweet mid-thirties body, had finally reached a point where it had given up on the quest for alpha dominance completely. You may as well cut your balls off and throw in the towel. Sure, it’s a natural part of the aging process, but it’s still a very tough pill to swallow. Just sharing a group text with him has the entire team questioning our own levels. The collective T-level of the group has surely dropped to record lows.
Somehow, though, the worst part of this revelation wasn’t the diagnosis. It was the fact that he’s actually being treated for it. My man is on the JUICE. He’s back in the game and playing at levels unseen since 2006. He’s waking up with mattress busting boners (his words, not mine) and walking around like Conor walks into UFC press conferences. Obviously we’re stoked for him, and I’m currently googling “at home testosterone testing kit,” but I’ll be damned if this isn’t a sign of things to come. He’s just the first domino to fall. Your mid-twenties are all about the first guy to get engaged, but the mid-thirties are all about the first to have his body quit on him. Low-T is coming, and there’s nothing we can do about it.
As if synthetic testosterone wasn’t enough of a wakeup call, I recently learned that I have a buddy suffering from “golfer’s elbow.” I dare you to find a more sad and pathetically named health issue. Good Lord. We’re dropping like fucking flies here. I’ve got dudes who can’t even play golf anymore in my inner-circle. And not to be outdone by testosterone replacement guy, he’s treating it with PRP, or platelet rich plasma therapy for those who don’t partake in the Joe Rogan Experience. This is cutting edge treatment which is obviously tight and something I have to have immediately, but it’s something that I assumed no one under thirty-five even considers- since, you know, that’s not that old.
We’re beyond the wait it out days for a nagging injury. Taking it easy and adding in a few more recovery days is a thing of the past. The mid-thirties present two options: treat it or live with it. Welcome to hell, baby.
So here I sit a few days away from thirty-four, the number that officially kicks your ass out of the early-thirties, and I’ve got Low-T Guy and nagging Golf Injury Man in my squad. Also, my shoulder hurts from wake boarding a few days ago. It’s so sad that it’s actually hilarious. This is probably what your grandparents feel like when they find out one of their friends has been moved into a home. It would probably be better if they just didn’t know about it. Going forward, that’s the approach I’m taking. My head is all the way buried in the sand. Please keep your slipped discs and plantar fasciitis treatments to yourself. I’ll keep pounding away like I’m twenty-two until the body says otherwise, or until I turn into a t-shirt in the pool guy. I’m aging and life is different now! Dammit..