Most men do not age gracefully. Men are not like women. They do not become more beautiful, as do their wives, lingering in the artifice of menopause. Most men wake up one morning, look at themselves in the mirror, and discover that they have taken on the appearance of Charles Manson. They gasp and go back to bed. Eventually they get over it and wash the sheets.
The autumn of a man's life is also cleansed by a frigid breeze. Various cold-fronts move in and inhabit portions of his body and his mind. He begins to ask deep questions--penetrating questions--about his existence and his purpose in life. What am I here for? What have I accomplished? What would be the tip on a $157.95 restaurant check?
These questions and others give his life clarity. He no longer worries about little matters--such as death or paying income taxes--and he takes on the child-like qualities that endeared him to his wife in the beginning of their romance. Some of the qualities include a sense of humor, taking out the trash, and a willingness to receive a collect-call from his wife if she loses her cell phone.
Many men, as they enter their manopausal years, also have religious awakenings. Some arrive at the realization that they can't sing worth s*** and begin taking banjo lessons. Others begin serving in soup kitchens or arrive at the realization that they are the 114th manifestation of the Dali Lama and move to Tibet where they take up residence in a grass hut.
The autumn of a man's life also leads him to wonder: is this all there is to life? Isn't there more?
Eventually he finds the answer in canned goods. He studies tea leaves and counts the number of pork bits in his beans. It all means something. And he knows the answer was inside him all along.
It's inside his gall bladder, and the doctor tells him it must come out.
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