I know this because my urologist wants to massage my prostate. He asks about my “flow” and how many times I visit the bathroom in the night. My GP tells me that my bad cholesterol is “slightly elevated” and that I must eschew my beloved red meat. Now I drink more cranberry juice and wander the supermarket aisles muttering about fibre, soya and something called Omega B.
And if the aches and ailments, the wear and tear of life, are not enough, I’ve also recently been struggling with the choices inflicted upon my ilk when it comes to buying clothes and looking vaguely presentable.
You see, I used to labour under the illusion that all a man needed to get by was a basic, albeit slightly elitist, wardrobe: black tie (parties), morning suit (weddings), suit (work), and something waxy and/or tweedy worn with jeans or chinos for nipping out to buy a carton of milk and the Sunday papers. To have anything hip was simply too much of an effort and even, dare I say it, a bit suspect.
But as the world has become more casual, it is pockmarked with sartorial sinkholes. I am reliably informed that Brad Pitt, who will be 50 next year, not only wears something called an Onesie but actually looks quite good in it.
I mention this because ever since my early 30s, when I learned that he was one year older than me, Brad has been a yardstick in my slog through life. When the pall of middle age first cast its shadow, I reminded myself that at least I was younger than the man who shared a bed with the most beautiful woman on the planet. Ergo, life wasn’t that bad. Now I hear he is given to dressing like an infant, I don’t know whether to celebrate his daring as a victory for my generation or mark it down as a pathetic act of narcissistic desperation.
You see, according to my Brad-is-one-year-older-than-me theory, he should be slumping down on the sofa next to Angelina, moaning that the local Gap doesn’t sell trousers into which he can slip his 49-year-old legs.
For he must surely be as flummoxed as I. Gap was the mothership when it came to basic trouserage. There was Classic cut, Straight cut and for the slightly outré among us, the Boot cut. We knew where we fit. The first curveball was the Slim cut. This accentuated the gut and reminded us that there were some styles we had to leave behind. We dealt with it. But now we have something called ‘Authentic skinny’, a fit I am unable to get even my foot into.
Shirts have gone the same way. Last week, the man at Thomas Pink’s Heathrow outlet suggested that the pleasing Bengal stripe with a cutaway collar might not be “generous” enough for me. Bastard.
As for grooming, gone are the days when brushed hair and clean hands were enough to pass muster. The original metrosexuals would be considered quite grungy by today’s standards. It’s not sufficient to have a tube of apricot kernel facial scrub and an electric nose trimmer. Apparently, I should also wax my bottom. Still, I’m game if Brad does it too.
