The luckiest man who ever lived.

I will be forty-four on May 8th.  I can tell.  The white in my hair is becoming more obvious.  And it’s been years since I bleached it.  I’ve also noticed, as I’ve blogged before, my face isn’t recovering from a night of sleep as quickly as it once did.  Some of the “sleep-lines” appear to be permanent.  To make matters worse sometimes I will have been awake for hours before I can see my eyes because the bags under them have finally deflated a wee bit.

Speaking of wrinkles.  I’ve developed a hatred for rear-view mirrors.  Is that my forehead  in the mirror’s reflection, or my grandfather’s?  In the rear-view mirror the deep furrows on my brow  have the appearance of a freshly plowed field.  Not to mention the crows feet etched into the skin around my eyes.  It’s little consolation knowing objects are closer than they appear.  Honestly, I’ve quit looking.  When I change lanes these days I grit my teeth and hope for the best.

All is not lost.  Yet.  They say a person’s nose and ears never quit growing.  Which makes me think the only thing that kept the 969 year old Methuselah from achieving lift-off when he flapped his ears was the weight of his nose.  What a bummer.  Or in his case, what a honker.  In my case,  so far so good.  I began with small ears and a small nose so it’ll be awhile before I can provide my own shade.

All of which leads me to revealing my candidate for the luckiest man who ever lived.  Mr. Potato Head.  Think about it- he’s ageless.  The only way his skin can wrinkle, crinkle or crack is by way of a hammer.  Sagging skin?  You would have to microwave him or throw him in a fire.  If Mr. Potato Head doesn’t like what he sees in the mirror all he has to do is detach the offending piece and replace it with one he likes.  No surgery.  No beauty regimen.  No creams.  Snap, snap and he’s a new man.

There’s no one like him.  Not even Barbie or Ken.  If they get tired of the way they look- because it’s the only way they’ve ever looked- they’d have to replace their entire head.  And we all know that’s impossible.

So, on the occasion of my forty-fourth birthday I salute Mr. Potato Head.  For all we know he’s even outlived Methuselah.

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