Last Friday night, I gave myself an enema in a restaurant toilet while 17 of my family and friends unknowingly sat a few a metres away enjoying the various culinary delights. The reason for such a traumatic, let alone rather uncomfortable, turn of events was that I learned last week that just because you can do something in your 30s doesn’t mean you still can do it in your 40s.
Until about three years ago, I used to love Thai food. Especially red-hot red curries. If they made my eyes water even bloody better. Alas, as one food reaction piled on top of one other in my late 30s – courtesy of having a system so acidic it should have been a bestselling comedian like Russell Brand – all the “good” (which really means bad) tasty stuff was soon off the menu. Mexican? Nope. Burgers? Only when I am very hungover and don’t care about the consequences. Pizza? Ditto previous comment. Indian? Never again. And Thai? My delicious creamy, MSG-laden Thai food – well, I could get away with it sometimes but only if I had eaten nothing but quinoa and grass clippings for a week before and after.
The last night of my 30s I ate red curry chicken for dinner. I’d just spent a week in Bali devouring all manner of spiciness and (mistakenly I was to learn) thought that miraculously I had healed myself of my many stomach issues. Alas, by the time we got back to the hotel, I was sweating profusely and had to borrow my dad’s sweatshirt because I’d got the chills. After a fitful sleep full of dreams of tarantulas and tidal waves, the first morning of being in my 40s involved me lying on the floor of the hotel toilet – naked and sweating and mere moments from passing out. It was all very very unpleasant. Without going into too fine a detail, let’s just say my birthday was utterly, utterly shit.
The next day, like some type of sinister bum coup, my bottom decided to shut down altogether and within two days my belly was so bloated I looked like I was four months’ pregnant. While all this hilariousness was taking place, family and friends starting flying in for my 40th birthday party – something which I had hyped to the point of ridiculousness or perhaps delusion – and all I wanted to do was go for a poo.
I tried cups of green tea, overdosed on fruit, drank coffee, laxative tea – nothing worked – so off I went to the chemist and acquired the aforementioned enema for just $2 after leaving any trace of humility at the pharmacy door. At the pre-party party (as you do), I decided I’d had enough. I felt like shit – which is kind of ironic – and didn’t want people asking me when the baby was due (and why I was pissed) at my party the next night. Plus I’d bought a flash designer frock for my party that made my tits look fantastic. So after half a dozen or so ciders to provide the necessary fortitude, the best two bucks I have ever spent was dispensed in the necessary fashion. Within 30 minutes it started working – indeed 24 hours later at my party it was still working, which I have to admit was a little inconvenient.
The whole shitty experience taught me that in my 40s I will never eat Thai food ever again. I dare say that sometimes I will miss it. As I will miss the ability to eat, drink or take whatever you like, whenever you like, for however long that you like. You see my party lasted for three days. It is now day five after its spectacular denouement and I don’t think that I’e fully recovered yet. Indeed, a trip to the doctor has been taken this week such was my overall crap condition. It’s an inconvenient truth that must be learned that it might in fact be time to grow up. But strangely, I’m kind of cool with that – as long as it doesn’t involve anything too extreme or scatological.