I like beer. Unfortunately, beer views me as a ship to whom they may barnacle and stay on for a number of months or years. A Saturday night of beers can mean tighter pants on Monday. It’s very distressing. Something had to be done.  

If I could just take a moment to bemoan the unfairness of age. At 22, I could drink 20 beers a week and still maintain a good weight. At 29, oh maybe the pounds were there because of beer, but I could go for a light jog three or four times a week and my pants would fit again. It was like a magic trick. Even in my early 30s beer was a manageable friend and foe.

But somewhere in the 4 decade this changed. In this decade I overhauled my lifestyle. Cooking involved buying ingredients and making things rather than opening packages and adding water. I began working out instead of relying on a morning sprint to a tram with half of a hotdog sticking out of my mouth. I relegated beer to once a week – any other night I wanted a drink it had to be wine. Despite all the wine, and the vast sadness that comes along with it, I began feeling much better, could pee without sweating, and clothing starting fitting better. Buttons on pants exploded less and less.

For a time, things were good. But in the later part of that 4 decade, I noticed that despite my better habits, weight loved me. it crawled from near and far to attach itself to my behind. And it would sit there. The sad realization was that it was mostly due to beer. But it wasn’t too bad yet.   

When I signed up to become a teacher, I knew more or less what it entailed. My holidays were suddenly relegated to the summer time. No matter what is happening in my personal life, I cannot let that show in the classroom. And occasionally, body functions become a (not so) silent member of the class.

Two months ago, a protein bar I had eaten caused an unexpected – yet loud and continuous – grumble in my stomach. One of the women in class suggested I visit the bathroom. I tried to explain, but it was no use. A few years ago, a lingering stomach flu caused me to completely change my classroom behavior. That is, I normally walk around class and squat or kneel next to students to get or give feedback. During this class, with a bug shooting around my innards like a pinball, I sat at the front, gave instructions, held the back of a chair and maintained. My feedback contained mostly: ‘sure, sounds good. Stay over there.’

Today, the question is straight up Shakespearean: to prd or not to prd. Prd means fart in Czech, and since I hate the word fart (the way others feel about moist and panties), it will be heretofore referred to as prd.  

See, the prd is a tremendous bodily function. Unlike its expellant cousins, the sneeze or the cough, it’s regarded as a major social faux pas if done in a public place. The smaller and more enclosed that place – like, say, a classroom – the worse it is regarded by those who didn’t do it. And this is why it can be tricky for a teacher who has to be in a classroom with six students for 8 hours on a Saturday and who on Friday dined on prunes and cabbage.

Getting older is great in a lot of ways. Saying ‘no, thank you’ to invitations without offering an excuse feels so good it should be illegal. Going to bed early, recalling the actual 1990s, your doctor talking to you as if your chums.

With the good comes the bad. I am stiff and sore for a full day after workouts. If I don’t write something down immediately, it disappears like it does for that poor fellow in Memento. (I will start tattooing my body in shopping and to-do lists.) There’s also the rising list of medicine. I am not on any prescribed medicine yet, but I do take a bunch of supplements and vitamins to help my fifty-something body run smoothly and not crumble like an empty egg carton.

Due to this, my day is punctuated by vitamins. Creatine and vitamins B and D and a baby aspirin in morning. In the evening, omega-3, magnesium, and zinc. These are suggested for old(er) dudes to keep alert, mobile, and alive.

Last week, prunes joined the daily diet when my body suddenly decided it no longer wanted to rid itself of waste. (see above: getting old body changes). I spent a day or two uncomfortable and then prunes and magnesium came to the rescue. They really are a wonder of nature – as an osmotic laxative, they bring water into the intestines and gently guide everything out. I now know why prune juice is a staple in every old(er) person’s fridge.   

The side effect of this wonder fruit is that you can get a wee bit gassy. ‘A wee bit’ here means that you will lose 4 pounds of body weight an hour.

Yesterday (as always), I look the bus home from school. Buses are sort of the kneecaps of Prague’s public transport system. Trams and metros have space to stand and sit. Buses, on the other hand, appear to have both, but in fact can only seat about 4 people while rendering all standing people in the discomfort of a Roman torture device. And so, yesterday, thirty people waited to see which 4 of us would be comfortable.

Amazingly, I was one of those people. (I threw an elbow at a woman distracted by the pram she was hoisting.) I tucked myself into a corner and pulled out my book for 12 minutes of bliss. Nobody needs me, I can’t be asked any questions, and it’s just me and 12 minutes of Ancient Celtic Europe. What more perfection could there be for a man after a long day of Englishing.

Something is pulling me away from Celtic Europe. But what? My eyes wander. There’s a gaggle of girls in the four-seat area ahead of me. They’re young and lithe and thus incapable of discomfort. They lounge upon each other like ferrets and speak with the confidence of those who think they know everything but don’t know shit (i.e. teens).

But it’s a sweatshirt that catches my eye. The back of a girl’s shirt reads: Few orgasms would probably fix everything!

On Friday, we order fast food. It’s Good Friday, after all, we have a long weekend. There are a lot of reasons that justify ordering fast food. It’s 9 pm. All is well – for the last time this weekend.

Around 11 pm, Burke complains of feeling too full. Since we’ve just eaten the better part of a cow and forty potatoes’ worth of French fries, ‘too full’ is not out of the realm of possibility.

Nature decides to take care of Burke’s too full problem by engaging in the most viscous and violent vomiting campaign a body has known since The Plague. The dog and I wince and listen and wince some more. I am the bringer of water and buckets. Someone in the hallway must think we’re putting on an off-off-off Broadway production of The Exorcist. Her last visit to the toilet is at 4 am. After that, mercifully, she sleeps.

Effen Easter. Easter around my house never goes well. I don’t know what it is about this particular spring festival, but a quick scan of Easter memories calls to mind illnesses, ER visits, personal issues, and work troubles. Easter always finds me sick, unhappy, or stressed. Based on the entire brochure Easter puts out there, it should be quite the opposite. But, alas, no.