I explained to a stand-up audience in Malaga that I had recently indulged in a bit of anal sex… well, truth be told, being a 65-year-old man, what really occurred was a visit to the doctor. I sat outside the surgery, already clenching at the very thought of what was about to happen. Then I thought to myself that I actually felt sorrier for the doctor. Imagine the dinner time chat with his wife when she asks, “so what did you get up to today dear?” I just hope the poor guy wasn’t eating chocolate mousse at the time.
Things have definitely changed over for me as the years have progressed. I have come to realise that life is a little different than it was back in my younger days. Gone are the carefree nights of dancing until dawn and drinking until I couldn't see straight. Now, my idea of a wild time is getting to bed before 11 pm and maybe indulging in a glass of wine (or two) with dinner.
Well, at least there's the daily ritual of dodging dog poo on my morning walk to the bakery. It seems like no matter where you step, there's always a fresh pile waiting to ruin your day. I’ve become an expert at scanning the ground for potential hazards, but I’m pretty sure that from a distance I must look like some sort of street, dance performer as I step suddenly to one side, or do an exaggerated foot lift to clear a particularly large poisonous pile. I must confess to, on occasion, having the urge to use one of my many poo bags that I use to collect my own mutt’s mess, to pick up one or two of the wayward piles, but the very thought makes me gag. I guess it’s the same mental reaction we have about the smell of our own farts, we love ‘em! And it’s also true that we can stomach our own pooch’s poo, but not that of a ‘stranger’dog.
And then there are the trips to the beach. Once a place of sun-kissed relaxation and carefree fun, now I find myself feeling out of place among the bronzed bodies and skimpy swimsuits. I try not to look too closely at the young, taut bodies frolicking in the surf, knowing that it only serves to make me feel like an old pervert. So, I settle for finding a quiet spot in the shade, where I can watch the world go by without feeling too self-conscious about my obvious man boobs and achy joints.
But for all the challenges that come with growing old in the south of Spain, there are also plenty of moments of joy and laughter to be found. I find myself chuckling at the antics of a local street performer, or sharing a joke with the waiter at my favourite tapas bar. I may not have the urinary force to be able to get rid of the skid mark on the back of the toilet bowl when I have a pee nowadays, but at least I retain a sense of humour and appreciation for life's little pleasures.
So, as I sip my wine and watch the sunset over the Mediterranean, I realize that growing old in the south of Spain may not be so bad after all. Sure, there are moments of discomfort and self-consciousness, but there are also moments of pure joy and contentment. I may not be as young or as carefree as I once was, but I’m still alive and kicking – and that's something worth celebrating.
We must embrace the quirks and challenges of growing old in the south of Spain, and remember to laugh at the absurdities of life along the way. And who knows, maybe that rectal examination won't seem so intimidating the next time around. After all, a little humor can go a long way in making even the most uncomfortable situations a little more bearable.
Join me next time when I’ll be delving into the complexities of sex and the male genitalia in the over 60’s (If I can remember where to find my reading glasses).
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