If you ever want to know whether you’ve gotten old or not, the first test should be to turn on the radio. If you are surprised when you don’t immediately hear Barry Manilow, then you probably aren’t in the target age group for Forever 21. You’d probably fit in better at Maybe 45…or Kinda 62.

Instead of good ole Barry, you’ll probably hear the sounds of that stuff the kids call “pop??? music. Oh, and when you find yourself starting to say things like, “Well, the kids say…,??? or “Back when I was young…,??? or “This reminds me of when Nixon was in office,??? then it is probably safe to say that Moses signed your birth certificate. That isn’t necessarily a bad thing. He has great Yelp reviews.

Soon after you begin asking Siri what a “Bad and Boujee??? or a Bruno Mars is, you may also notice that the plucking of gray hairs is kind of becoming a part-time job—one with no benefits. Let’s not even mention the extra hairs that begin sprouting from your nose, ears, and eyeballs—everywhere except where you need it. Thank God for toupees. I call mine Carl. The next time you see me and Carl on the street, feel free to say hello.

All of that aside, the major tell-tale sign of old age is your clothing. As I sit here on my balcony in a Snuggie, I’m reminded of a time when a much younger me wouldn’t have left my room if my hair wasn’t brushed or if my shoes didn’t match my belt. That statement is not to be confused with whether the carpets match the drapes. Well, because we’re friends, I feel comfortable admitting that I lost my carpet and my drapes years ago.

When it comes to clothing, I’ve pretty much given up on being fashion forward. No matter how much I watch “Keeping Up With The Kardashians,??? I just don’t think I can pull off a yellow romper, even if Caitlyn Jenner recommends it as being comfortable menswear. For me, any sense of style has definitely left the building. Maybe it left with the drapes. Hell, it might have gone with the carpet. How is one to know? But I digress.

Recently, I caught my reflection in a store-front window. To my shock and horror, my pants were pulled up a lot higher than I used to be comfortable with. As opposed to my belt being at waist level, my reflection showed that it sat slightly below my floppy B cups, which had previously been A cups until I had a big breakfast that morning.

Panic-stricken, I began pushing my pants down as if there were no tomorrow. Defiantly, they would not budge. I wiggled. I jiggled. Some middle school children giggled. I loosened my belt. I undid the button and lowered my zipper, but the pants clung to my chest as if their success in life depended on it. It was as if they were Jennifer Hudson in “Dreamgirls??? as they began to sing, “And I am telling you, I’m not going.???

I looked around and tried to identify someone that I could use to determine how high the waist of my pants were supposed to be. First, my eyes landed on a group of teens whose pants were sagging in a manner that exposed a bit more than I believe would be allowed in my business-casual office, and were certainly lower than the legal limits in at least five southern states. Besides that, I am certainly not cool enough to pull off the sag. After all, I was wearing khakis, a fitted shirt and oxfords.

Next, I spotted a few guys whose pants were sitting as high as mine were. I began to smile because I believed I had found where I belonged, but then I noticed that these guys all had walkers. Gray hair—or no hair—rested where once black, blond, or brown drapes had grown. Depressed, I left my pants right where they were under my man-boobs and joined my new friends. We spent the rest of the day playing bridge while discussing the merits of suspenders and orthopedic shoes. I felt right at home.

On another clothing-related note, it does not appear that I’m going to get through the summer of 2017 by wearing a waist trainer under a pair of full-body Spanx at the beach as I had planned. I emailed a current photo of me to the CEO at Spanx so that she could see what I was working with. She responded with a lovely memo stating that the organization simply did not have access to enough fabric for such a project, but she did wish me luck on my future endeavors.

After crying myself to sleep that night, I wondered if I could put a few liposuction sessions on my credit card. When each of them was declined, I called my insurance company and complained that the procedure should be covered because it just wasn’t natural to allow a person to walk the streets with three chins and five necks. I sent them pictures of me as well, and they responded with a cease and desist letter. Apparently, forcing their staff to view photos of me in various states of undress was cruel and unusual punishment. However, they did recommend that the pictures be used as an alternate form of torture since waterboarding is so controversial nowadays.

All of this body-shaming caused me to revisit my New Year’s resolution to hit the gym. I mean, since I’ve been faithfully paying membership fees for the past 10 years, I figured the least I could do was stop by and look at a treadmill. Sure, the last time I went to the gym, I sprained my rotator cuff by moving a 3-pound dumbbell out of the way to make room for my Starbucks cup. Oh, and there was that terrible case of athlete’s foot that I caught in my left eye. Besides that, I didn’t think a gym visit would be so bad.

You will be pleased to know that I’ve gone to the gym more in the past few weeks than I did in the past 20 years. Surprisingly, I still weigh exactly the same as I did before. In addition to me not losing a single pound, my blood pressure and cholesterol are hanging in their high and strong. Much like me, apparently my numbers are resistant to change. I’ve gotten used to that look of shock and amazement my doctors display when they check my numbers and wonder how I’m still alive.

Whether I go to the gym or not, or whether I lose weight or not, in my opinion, I have still been doing my duty as an American citizen in supporting U.S. businesses by faithfully paying my membership dues to Bally’s each month. Oh wait…my mom is telling me it is now called LA Fitness. Huh. When did that happen? 2011?!?!?! And no one corrected me all this time when I’ve been lying about going to Bally’s every morning! Geez, who can you trust?!?!?!

Regardless of the name, I am proud to say that I helped LA Fitness keep the lights on. And, yes, you can thank me for the new elliptical machine at your local gym because it was probably my hard-earned money that paid for it. You’re welcome. I wonder if my name is inscribed on the treadmill somewhere. I wonder if it was expensive. I wonder if it came with carpet and drapes.

Michael Rochelle
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