The side effect of this is that your personal standards get slowly phased out, like analogue TV or racist sitcoms.
As I write this I’m wearing underpants that should have been decommissioned months ago. The gusset is more concept than reality at this stage. They’ve been hanging around in my draw for ages now, like an over the hill boxer desperate for one last big fight.
‘Pick me! I won’t let you down!’
Today was the day as there were no other clean ones. They’ve let me down big time.
I put my wife’s old maternity pants on for a little joke the other day. We both laughed but it became increasingly clear that these things were comfy and more importantly, intact. If I do end up wearing them properly I’ll be one of a very small group of men who’ve been pushed to transvestitism out of necessity.
My physical standards have also disintegrated like a croissant in the wind.
I had a proper look at myself in the mirror yesterday, one of those investigative stares into a magnifying shaving mirror. Even at your physical prime those things make you look like shit so this was like going on a facial safari.
My ears were hairy, my cheeks blotchy and the skin on my forehead was cracking like an Indian Test wicket.
My eyes had the broken look of someone who’s been smoking crack competitively for the last decade and these days I’ve got more crow’s feet on my face than an avian dancefloor.
If the hipster community ever decide that nasal hair is fashionable then I’m a future cover star of GQ Magazine with the look I’m pioneering.
Clothes either don’t fit anymore due to my ever expanding waistline or are blatantly not fit for purpose. A lack of time and money has prevented me from buying any new stuff in ages, leaving me to walk around dressed like a man with no fixed abode. My shoes leaked yesterday and I didn’t do anything about it.
I’m 37 years old for god’s sake.
Now, where did I put those maternity pants?