Sure. Yet things that suck with industrial strength as I get older are (in no particular order):
- Nipples with minds of their own. It's a new requirement of dressing to arrange and point them in the direction they're meant to be. An art project if you will. I tend to go for the "Perky Seal Nose" position most often.
- Defining ones drink. I don't imbibe fruity or anything with a sugared rim. A true margarita is Patron, lime and a whisper of citrus liqueur, rocks never frozen like a gee-damn Slurpy. My drink is strong, not sweet. Bourbon, when stirred into cola, gives me bad, bad dreams. Love a gin and ginger ale (with the juice of half a lime) but dread the calories and morning after bloat. I'm down to martinis and red wine (even white is mostly syrupy water; want a Micheline man tummy, go for a Rose'). I can't Mad Dog it all night long anymore. Now after the third glass of red or second lethal cocktail I wake the next morning, head pounding and looking in vain for the cat. You know, the one that shit in my mouth.
- Carbs hate me. They puff out every cell in my body (who knew upper arm bloat was possible) and head pounding tells me I've overdone it. Again. I mostly gave up chips, now-and-then a Cheese Nip, raw almonds or (special treat) the salty-soy flavor of Asian trail mix. But when it comes to soft cheese and bread, I'd rather be shaved with a potato peeler than dunked in a lemon juice bath than give it up. I'll take the badonkadonk booty.
- How does one pull muscles while sleeping? Even with a squishy Tempur-Pedic topper and proper weight, down filled pillows I awake with a neck or shoulder strain. Some mornings, after adult activities not requiring sleep but also done in bed (or the couch, on the floor, or back seat of the car) I'm immobile enough I swear I caught the polio.