This is my 200th column for this paper. According to a survey I took this week, I’m unlikely to reach 201...
Sat at my desk in the office at lunchtime recently, I saw a Tweet from the BBC with a link asking me “How does your lifestyle affect the age of your body?” and a link to an online test to help me discover the age of mine.I know the age of my body. I have a birth certificate to prove it. Still, I’d been out for a brisk 6 mile walk just days before, and was consuming my healthy lunchtime salad, followed by an apple and some fromage frais.
So I felt comfortable that I’d get a result suggesting that my body, if not quite a temple, was at least a well-preserved place of interest, and definitely not a condemned building with severe structural problems.
Ten minutes of clicking later, I was in for a nasty surprise. It seems the bulldozers of doom will be here to demolish my dangerous abode at any moment. I’ve not even been cluttering up the planet for half a century yet, and the test reckons I have a body that’s the equivalent of 72.
72! On that basis, I might not even make it to the end of this column – I’m only half way through, and time appears to be desperately short. I may never get to swim with dolphins, become a Formula 1 driver or write that book I’ve been annoying friends and family about. Or even make it to dinner.
In fact, the additional stress induced by this shocking revelation may even now be pushing that age up even higher, in an escalating feedback loop of doom which will see me riding the celestial stair-lift to meet my maker before I finish typing this sentence.
Phew. Made it. Anyway, the test (which you can find at http://bbc.in/1QxJQFV) clearly highlighted the effect that having previously smoked for a couple of decades has had on me. Unfortunately, tweaking things that I can still do something about looks daunting.
Even if I immediately get a large pet, somehow avoid getting stressed, exercise every day, stop drinking, become an optimist, get my five a day every day, give up processed, salty, sugary and fatty foods, get lots of support from those around me and regularly fast, the very best I can do is come in at mid 40s.
Bearing in mind that stressing and being pessimistic are my reason for reluctantly getting out of bed in the morning, and even with a noticeable improvement on all other fronts (I’m still not getting an elephant), it’s likely I can manage mid 50s if I’m really determined, motivated, and commit to it.
Determination, motivation and commitment being three more things I’m routinely hopeless at.
So, goodbye cruel world. I’m off to sulk over a large bag of chips.
Hang on, can I retire now, then? Things are looking up.
This post (hopefully!) appeared as my "Thank grumpy it's Friday" column, in the North West Evening Mail, on the 15th of April 2016. I haven't got my copy in the post yet, and their Opinion website page still has my F1 season preview as the most recent piece.
Should everything have gone according to plan, this would indeed be my 200th published column (there was one they reckoned was libellous, which didn't get published), so quite a milestone for me. With a few Christmas/New Year/Exam results/Holiday gaps, that also means I'm just a couple of weeks away from 4 years, too. Cripes.
I really was expecting to get a result from this test that said I was around my actual age, physically. 72 was a nasty surprise, especially as I eat pretty well, do some exercise and hardly drink, plus quit smoking 7 years ago. Having said that, I do feel rougher than a bear's bum most days, so I guess it's pretty accurate. Dammit.
(CD A-Z: Still on E - musically, not the 90s happy pills - with Enigma's "Love Sensuality Devotion" Remix outing from... oh, look... 1991.)
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