She asks me why, I'm just a hairy guy

I don't want to start/
Any blasphemous rumors/
But I think that God's/
Got a sick sense of humor/
And when I die/
I expect to find him laughing
Blasphemous Rumors by Depeche Mode

I was thinking about this post on my ride to work yesterday - the cruelty of time and what it does to the body, and after a check in over at Metro's post today, it seems even more appropriate. Metro writes about Hector, his pot-belly. No, not of the porcine variety. He's talking about the pot-belly which causes our waist sizes to quickly approach our age. Now, I've had mine for quite a long time. Actually, I think I was born with one. It's always been there, my quarter barrel - a constant reminder of my love of good food and drink and ice cream. I did drop some major poundage while I was in the army lo these many years ago, but, it was always there - even when I weighed in at a strapping 156 lbs., the belly was still there...mocking me...taunting me. And it was then that I resigned myself to the fact that it would always be there.

But, yesterday I wasn't really thinking about bellies, beer guts, spare tires - whatever you want to call it. I was thinking about the other, even less-flattering developments as one careens through the 30s and into the 40s. I mentioned to Mrs. Big Dubya awhile back that God plays practical jokes with men. For some men, He begins to strategically remove the hair on the head. Interesting patterns begin - some look like Friar Tuck; others like Capt. Stubing. Then there's the receeding hairline where one day you have a forehead, the next an eight-head. But, if you're lucky enough to avoid any of those, don't you worry, you won't be left out. Oh, no. You get to have hair where there should never be any or, if it is there, it starts growing uncontrollably. I mean, really, why do I need hair growing from my earlobes? It's not like I can work with it or anything. There's no adding highlights or fashionably styling it. I guess if you fall into one of the earlier removal categories, you could work on a comb-over, but c'mon. And, my nose, is that supposed to be funny? I'm really not a vain person, but I do have my limits and excess hair is one of them. So, I do my careful trimming. I suppose I could go the way others I know have and just let it run wild, but, I find, it's a huge distraction - I find myself noticing those crazy, run-amok hairs on other people and not being able to take my eyes off them. I end up wanting to pull a Roseanne Roseannadanna: "Hey, Bo! Shove that hair back up your nose! What are you trying to do, make me sick?" Oh, and what He's not taking away from you or giving you in unflattering places, he starts turning gray. And not that suave, Silver Fox look either, but those wiry, mind-of-their-own hairs that will poke your wife's eye out.

So, while I feel for Metro and his friend, Hector, I, obviously, have other more pressing things to deal with. If you'll excuse me now, I have to go snort some Neet.