Continuing on in my series of life’s “dirty little secrets” file, I’ll share how age (and hopefully, years of acquired wisdom) has impacted my life thus far.  Listen up, you youngsters (e.g. anyone under fifty) – this is valuable information I’m passing along here.  You may think it doesn’t apply to you, but trust me – it will.

Today I’m going to focus on eating.  Has it changed over the years?  You better believe it.

I’ll start this time in my teens.  As a young lad experiencing puberty, let’s just say that my appetite was off the charts.  For goodness sake, I grew six inches in one year.  Seriously.  A human body undergoing that much change needs fuel to burn (not to mention longer pants about every two months).  Fuel – in this case – is food, and let me tell you something – a teenage boy with the metabolism of an iron blast furnace goes through a lot of it.

I ate constantly.  I could eat an entire large pizza after school – and then sit down to a full dinner.  Five minutes after dinner I would pound down an entire family-sized bag of potato-chips.  I drank milk by the gallon.  I ate when I got up in the morning.  I ate when I got home from soccer or band practice at night.  I ate minutes before going to bed.  My mother had two teenage boys in her house and my brother and I would eat half of the groceries before she’d even gotten them out of the bags upon returning home from a shopping trip.  There were no “leftovers” in our house.  Whatever she cooked – we ate – every last bit of it.  It was like she had taken in two gangly locusts.

This appetite continued well into my twenties.  My young friends and I were the scourge of “all-you-can-eat” buffets.  $19.95?  Pfffffffff.  You’re giving it away.  All the while, we never gained an ounce.  We’d feast like death-row inmates and still lose weight.  Gentlemen, this is the point in life where women start to really hate us – but don’t worry ladies – the skinny bus will soon be leaving, and guess what?  We lads won’t be on it.

Hello, thirties.  Hello, desk job.  Who’s that in the mirror?  Oh, that’s me.  Did I get stung by a bee?  No, it’s just that the metabolism meter dropped from “blast furnace” to “jar candle”.  36” pants?  Who am I, my father?  I used to laugh at my Dad’s physique, but guess what?  I’ve got the same one.  Yes, the old “dad-bod” showed up after the kids arrived, and it has set up shop as a permanent resident in my forties and fifties.

I also used to be able to eat just about anything.  Now?  Geez, I love butter pecan ice cream, but I just can’t eat it anymore.  Why, you ask?  Because it gives me gas.  Not just the “fart it and forget it” kind, I’m talking “doubled over in pain until I drop the deuce” kind.  It’s pathetic. 

On an evening out recently I ate a big, fat hamburger loaded with deep-fried bacon, cheese, onions, and tomato – along with a heaping mound of hand-cut fries.  Yes, it was delicious, but I was soon paying the price for my overindulgence.  The heartburn I experienced an hour later had me popping “Tum’s” antacid tablets like “Sweet-Tarts” and moaning like a man who had lost his leg in battle.

Everything I used to love to eat now has limits that my body tells me about either by expansion or digestive system complaints.  Sure, I can eat two helpings of sausage gravy and biscuits – if I want my wardrobe to consist of nothing but sweatpants and shirts that can be used as a toddler’s play-fort.  Like those barbeque pork rinds or hot butter on that heaping bowl of popcorn?  Mmmmmmm, there’s a double dose of ‘Lipitor’ cholesterol medication in that future.

Oh well, it was fun while it lasted. 

Now, can you please pass me that oil and vinegar dressing for my salad?