The Aging Giant Who Weighed 1/8th of a Ton

I’m a big dude. I don’t know if many of you know this about me.

I’m 6’4″ tall and I weigh an eighth of a friggin’ ton. If your brain is too tired for math, that’s 250 LBS., which (admit it) just isn’t as much fun to say as, “ONE EIGHTH OF A TON!”

I’m also getting older. I just had my 37th birthday.

Thirty-seven years old. That’s solidly closer to 50 than it is to 20. The babies who were born the year I graduated high school have now graduated high school themselves. Some of those babies are training to be jet pilots already, or taking their pre-med classes, or stationed overseas to serve their country and protect the free world. I’m sure all sorts of them have all sorts of STIs already.


My body just… hurts a lot more than it ever has. All over. My knees feel like they have chisels jamming into them as I try and run. My hips take a few minutes to get fully moving in the mornings. My arms don’t raise as easily as they used to because my shoulders just don’t have enough KY Jelly inside of them, or whatever it is that makes them rotate with ease. My grip on my Harley brake is starting to feel what I can only assume is one day going to turn into raging arthritis. Hell, the last time I got it on in the bedroom, I got a Charlie horse five minutes in. But so did she, so at least you know I’m dating within my age range…

Seriously though. An eighth of a ton. But… Only 37-years old. That doesn’t actually sound very old at all when I say it aloud. Front with me, friends. Is it? Do other people’s joints start hurting just a little bit more at this age? Or does the size and weight I’ve been lugging around my whole life make me like one of those giant breeds of dogs who just has a shorter life span and starts moving reaaaaaaallllly gingerly when he’s lived only half the years that a normal-sized dog does?

I’ve been a giant compared to most others my whole life.


I wonder if I am like a giant breed of dog because of my size. I wonder if I actually passed middle age a few years back. I wonder if the average person’s 80-year lifespan is my 40. I hope not. Then I’m in real trouble.

I’m also apparently a drama queen. Aging isn’t all bad.

The awesome part about getting older? My memory is way better than it’s ever been and my thoughts are way easier to put together.

That was a big fat lie, and you know it.

My brain is 22% mush and 13% of my attempts at retrieving memories come back with “memory irretrievable” or “data corrupt” error messages.

But, really. Aging isn’t all bad. Not all bad at all.

I do have beautiful wisdom and insight that one can only get from living a lot of life, and from seeing a lot of ups and downs along the way.

I have incredible components of my life that I have spent years or decades building, slowly and steadily, with determination that only becomes more resolute with age.

I know, with authority, what real love is and what it looks like, and I know the value in patience when it comes to finding it.

My 37 years have brought me perspective. They’ve brought me unbreakable friendships and bonds. And they’ve brought me appreciation for so much that my naivety made me take for granted when I was younger.

Those years have also brought me a greater understanding of relativity. I mean… I’m 37. That’s not that old at all compared to some of you, is it. Some of you crazy Internet peeps of mine are way older. Neener, neener.

Let’s see… Did I have any real point to this blog post?

I can’t remember. Because my brain is 22% mush.

Maybe that’s what blogging will be for me now. Maybe I should make it a point to only write from here on out, while sitting in a rocking chair, and just ramble on eternally with all the random things that pass through my disintegrating brain.

Today, getting old and hurting from being a giant my whole life. Next week, maybe something more awesome like whippersnapper complaints or uncontrollable farting. Stay tuned.

Dan Pearce | The Single Dad Laughing Blog

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