My body said no this weekend. He rarely does, but I've noticed he's become a fuccboi recently. He coughs up blood some mornings. Other times, a limb will just refuse to do its assigned job. I'll try to talk some sense into the motherfucker, do 100 push-ups for old time's sake, but nothing. Tonight, he'll be sprawled on my bedroom floor, contemplating putting on yesterday's jeans and heading out to a party where other, less decrepit, bodies might be. He will not make it.
Of course, this is what it is to be old. Well, more like this is what it is to be old and young simultaneously. I'm turning 26, which is still considered young by basically everyone's standard who isn't about to be 26, but I can't help but remember how things were only some four years ago. My body was a completely different beast at 22. That's just it, he was a beast. There were times where he'd stay up all night, drinking tequila straight from the bottle, then head directly into work like nothing happened. He did that regularly too. That's not the case anymore. Even the thought of tequila causes him to pee himself like a 2nd grader. God, he's such a pubescent.
Earlier today, my body was fine. I took the train to SoHo just to walk around and look at clothes I would never actually buy. He never complained or asked me to loosen up my pants buckle, something that I have to do every day at work. There was a moment in the Onassis store when the sales associate tried to make a slick comment about my flannel and my body was ready to throw a punch instinctively. That's how it was at 22. Maybe things were looking up for ol' boy. He had been telling me how he wanted to eat healthier and possibly even do a few crunches when we got back to the house. I picked him up a salad at Whole Foods just for good measure and headed back on the train to Brooklyn feeling like a young hot ebony.
It didn't last long though. I blame Whole Foods. They knew that the chicken salad wasn't a full meal and right after I finished it my body was ready to demolish a large pizza dolo. And because he needs the exact opposite of the green shit he ate earlier, I ordered a meat lovers pie. Fine dining shit, really. I sat on the couch and loosened up my pants buckle, patiently waiting for Papa John to come through with that work.
He's been fully beamed up to the IKEA mothership now and he has no intention of leaving.
Unfortunately, the product wasn't as good as expected. It's not that he didn't enjoy it, I mean, my body devoured the motherfucker, but it still felt like something important was missing. Like having blow without cigarettes or a computer without WiFi, the pizza alone felt bleh. Should I call John back and ask for something to supplement the large pie? Nah, dealers always hate when they gotta come to the same house twice. My body fell onto the bed and put the phone on the other side of the room so he won't be tempted to text the plug. He was, in that moment, surprisingly mature.
My body's favorite place is my shitty IKEA bed. Actually, to say it's shitty is a criminal understatement. I've had women leave the crib because they refused to lie in it. Well, that or they weren't feeling the Goodfellas poster I had in my college dorm. Not surprisingly, my body didn't have sex until after college. But, yeah, he'll lie in that bed for hours, ignoring texts, calls and knocks on the door. That wasn't the plan today though. This was a quick nap. Just a time to regroup, figure out his brand new workout plan and get ready for the night. I even took off my pants for his added comfort. It was only gonna be a few minutes. There's a lot of shit poppin' off tonight.
We're three movies deep now. My body decided he needed an order of wings and a soda, but the real high came from Roc-A-Fella Films. There's just something about shitty food and shitty gangster flicks. Maybe that's why Rico, Mitch and Ace are dining on what looks like hood Chinese in the opening scene.
We're about halfway through State Property and my body is peaking. You know that anti-drug commercial that shows scrambled egg and says, "This is your brain on drugs"? That's my body being right now and it's glorious.
My body can hear the texts going off and, sometimes, even people calling, but that's not about to break his wave. He's been fully beamed up to the IKEA mothership now and he has no intention of leaving. My body and I have done did a lot of shit just to live this here lifestyle. This is our "nigga, we've made it" moment. My body is a fuccboi wonderland.
Brian Padilla is a writer living in Brooklyn. You can follow him on Twitter here.
