Warning: read this text only if you have accepted all about your own aging process and you are sure that nothing on that subject can harm to you and/or if you have sadomasochist fantasies about it.
In February 2019, I will become 37. I can’t believe it. I see the wall of 40 years old rushing to me at full speed. Each time somebody says the number 40, even in another context, I turn pale. I don’t want to get old, I want to be further desired, I want women to still find me attractive. I see more and more aging signs in my mirror. I try to hide them, but it depresses me. Why do I have to progressively give back, to gradually lose on a long time scale all things which were given to me at the beginning of adulthood and which made of me a so wonderful man, which made my life so beautiful and my dreams come true? My pain is just stronger. I try to believe that I should enjoy the little youth and beauty remaining to me before there is nothing left, but this makes the mourning process permanent. And how is it possible to enjoy something which deteriorates inexorably and which will be soon completely and definitively lost? Time destroys everything, and pain caused by it is particularly refined.
I gained a lot of weight with time, and that’s only the beginning. Young people have already to be much disciplined in order to stay thin, they must make sacrifices, deprive themselves, endure hunger, “suffer to be beautiful.” But time, like a sadistic monster, reduces continuously our metabolism as we age. In order to keep its young man or young girl figure, or simply not to gain more weight, it is then necessary to make more and more sacrifices, to deprive itself more and more, to extend again and again the list of loved things one now must give up, to starve itself more and more, to endure a more and more intense and long-lasting hunger. Since I can’t suffer that way but I always give up, I know that I will become fatter and fatter with time. Time is turning me progressively into an ugly and monstrously obese middle-aged man.
In February 2019, I will become 37. I can’t believe it. I see the wall of 40 years old rushing to me at full speed. Each time somebody says the number 40, even in another context, I turn pale. I don’t want to get old, I want to be further desired, I want women to still find me attractive. I see more and more aging signs in my mirror. I try to hide them, but it depresses me. Why do I have to progressively give back, to gradually lose on a long time scale all things which were given to me at the beginning of adulthood and which made of me a so wonderful man, which made my life so beautiful and my dreams come true? My pain is just stronger. I try to believe that I should enjoy the little youth and beauty remaining to me before there is nothing left, but this makes the mourning process permanent. And how is it possible to enjoy something which deteriorates inexorably and which will be soon completely and definitively lost? Time destroys everything, and pain caused by it is particularly refined.
I gained a lot of weight with time, and that’s only the beginning. Young people have already to be much disciplined in order to stay thin, they must make sacrifices, deprive themselves, endure hunger, “suffer to be beautiful.” But time, like a sadistic monster, reduces continuously our metabolism as we age. In order to keep its young man or young girl figure, or simply not to gain more weight, it is then necessary to make more and more sacrifices, to deprive itself more and more, to extend again and again the list of loved things one now must give up, to starve itself more and more, to endure a more and more intense and long-lasting hunger. Since I can’t suffer that way but I always give up, I know that I will become fatter and fatter with time. Time is turning me progressively into an ugly and monstrously obese middle-aged man.
6 years