What does a 56-year-old man worry about?

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During infancy, my central concerns focused on the risk of humiliation at the hands of my school teachers, some of whom deployed bare-bottom spanking in front of the whole class as a punishment; even at the tender age of six, the prospect of botching the arithmetic test and my arse being exposed to 30 of my peers was a disturbing prospect. By the time I reached my teenage years my worries centred on whether I’d win the affections of a pretty girl in my class (and perhaps glimpse her arse) rather than losing out to one of my mates.

Early adulthood evoked anxieties about college examinations and career prospects. Then parental responsibilities arrived, together with ongoing fears about not having enough money to pay the bills at the end of each month. As my affluence increased, the day-to-day worries of a responsible job, alongside the toxic office politics, grabbed centre stage.   

Now at 56, and having recently opted for early retirement with a generous pension, what is there left for me to worry about? My 33-year-old relationship with Mrs Jones is stronger than ever. My two adult children seem to be maturing into decent, independent human beings. There is nothing around to disturb my mental tranquillity.  

But the human psyche, in its wondrous complexity, seems to find things to fret about even when life is good. Listed below are the top 10 worries that have pushed into my mind over the last month:

1. The inward journey of my toe-nail

Despite regular attention from the clippers, the big-toe nail on my left foot seems determined to get more acquainted with the neighboring soft tissue, and is burrowing into the flesh like a scene from Alien on reverse play.

2. My daughter driving her Mini-Cooper

The occasional disturbing image of my precious princess travelling at speed in such a frail shell alongside all the 4 x 4s and juggernauts, while casually twiddling the dial on her car radio.

3. The kink in my willy

It might have been my overly tight classic briefs, but when I was in the shower a fortnight ago I noticed that my most precious appendage had an almost 45-degree kink in it half way along its length. For a few nervous moments I feared that any future intimacy would require Mrs Jones to be out of sight and in a separate room.

4. My football club suffering a humiliating defeat

Following promotion to the Premier League of English football (soccer), my small-town club, Burnley, are this season competing against giants like Manchester United and Liverpool. More than once I’ve awoken abruptly from a nightmare as a 10^th goal sails into the Burnley net.

5. Dying slowly with a degenerative brain disease

Sadly, my mother-in-law is afflicted with senile dementia; her faculties and personality ebbed away some time ago. I fear such a gradual, undignified demise. When it’s time to meet my maker, I hope for a sudden death; a massive coronary during one of my early-morning jogs would be ideal.

6. Whether my knee joints can hold firm

Speaking of jogging … throughout my menopause-fueled pursuit of fitness, my knee and ankle joints regularly creak and threaten to give way altogether. As such, I’m prone to catastrophic images of being wheel-chair bound before the age of 60.

   

7. Self-mutilation from trimming my bush

I increasingly like to keep my intimate vegetable patch neat and tidy, a practice encouraged by reading that shaving makes your manhood look bigger. But the ever increasing depths of the folds in my dangly bits means that completion of the procedure with my Remington 3-speed trimmer is fast developing into a bloody business; I fear one day that the process will leave the shower resembling the iconic scene from Psycho.

8. My son’s lungs

At the age of 22, for some inexplicable reason, my son Ryan decided to start smoking. At times I’m disturbed by the image in my head of his sooty lungs, spluttering to inflate.  

9. The passage of time

It is unsettling how quickly time passes: I’m not far off 60; my parents are in their mid 80s, and my “kids” are both 20-something. Bereavements are imminent. But perhaps even more unsettling are the little losses and endings: no more family holidays; no more teaching my children to drive; selling our house so as to down-size; and no longer in the role of my children’s taxi driver - all life chapters that will never be repeated.

10. My hemorrhoids

Despite previous assaults with ointments and the surgeon’s knife, my resilient little buddies continue to strive for daylight. Although painless, the blood-stained underwear can sometimes appear as if … … But I’ll spare you any more detail; I wouldn’t wish to worry you!  

And who said the life of a 56-year-old early retiree was an easy one?

A table for one

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Last Saturday afternoon, I attended a beer festival in a neighbouring town and, as it was a pleasantly warm evening, decided to walk the four miles home rather than order a taxi. As is often the case, my five pints of fine cask ale had induced a mellow mood and I welcomed the opportunity for reflection during the homeward hike.

When I reached the half-way point on my journey, around 7.30 pm, I passed an Indian restaurant. The sweet smell of chicken tikka masala caressed my nostrils and triggered a hollow, burning sensation in the pit of my stomach, so I decided I was in urgent need of a curry.

Despite the restaurant seeming less than half full, several minutes elapsed before the manager greeted me.

“Good evening, sir”, he said, while glancing over my shoulder, as if searching for my dining companion. “How can I help you?”

This struck me as a bizarre question; I resisted the urge to say that I’d like to buy two litres of matt emulsion and hog-hair brush.

“A table for one, please.”

“Have you booked?”

“No, I’ve dropped in on the off-chance” I said, while scanning the empty tables around us.

The manager seated me near to the exit, directly across from the ladies’ restroom. A swift swoop of his hand cleared away one set of utensils, leaving the undersized table set for one diner.

As I read the menu, I could not help but notice the reactions of other customers to me, Billy-no-mates, sitting alone. Two young women exiting the toilet seemed to stare at me as if I was a reincarnated version of Ted Bundy. A couple entering the restaurant looked, and looked again, as if they had observed something ghoulish. I reassured myself that I must be succumbing to paranoia, and that it was all in my imagination.

Once the food arrived, the process of eating only amplified my self-consciousness. The crunch as I bit into my poppadoms seemed to reverberate around the restaurant. Despite my best efforts, my lamb bhuna insistently dribbled out of the corner of my mouth. After all, eating out is a social activity, where food intake should be punctuated by conversation and the exchange of pleasantries; but without anyone opposite me, to distract and

shield, I felt exposed.

Towards the end of my meal, two children, a boy and a girl both aged about 6, appeared in front of me. I nodded and smiled; thankfully they smiled too. Suddenly, their mother appeared, glanced suspiciously in my direction and, without any word or gesture of recognition to me, grasped their hands and led them quickly away. I felt like the child-catcher from Chitty-Chitty Bang Bang intent on snatching children off the streets of Vulgaria! I stifled an impulse to scream, “Come along my little ones; come and get your lollipops.”

It is rare for me to eat out alone in a restaurant, particularly in the evening. My impromptu stop at the Jewel of Bombay provided me with empathy of how single people might feel when in the same position. I wont be repeating the experience in a hurry; thank goodness for Mrs Jones!