“Will that be paper or plastic, Sir?”

That “magic moment” happened to me a couple years ago, and in one stroke you’re removed from the ranks of “eligible bachelors” and inserted in your rightful place, “old middle aged guys.”

Watching my peers fight it off is a bit expected and mostly comical; the endless parade of fast two seater convertibles, the “Grecian Formula” gambit, and Botox everything.

It gets a bit scary listening to two erstwhile “normal” guys talking about “mango-aloe-tofu” face peels, but this is California – so I take it in stride.

I’m tempted to interject, “Guys, Botox your gut, ’cause even if the 19 year old’s are giving it away, they still hate fat, balding guys with sweaty palms…” – but I don’t, I pretend I didn’t notice – pour my coffee, and run like hell.

I’m taking the path less traveled. I’m going to sit at home with the gut flowing comfortably over the belt and pound snot out of virtual fish. Botox might be an option, but I’m thinking I might inject it in my wrist, so I can throw them tight loops, like when I was younger.

Christmas is enroute, and maybe this Wii thing has legs.

I’m scratching my head over the accompanying items; “fishing rope” is obviously fly line, but why would they insist on a 50mm plastic fish?

Is that somehow going to convince me I’m really fishing? If that’s the case, don’t include a damn thing, as most of the time all I catch is a cold. Beat the kids off is more my speed, perhaps torment the cat a bit…

Us fishermen can’t ever look at our sport through the eyes of someone who doesn’t fish, we lost that ability when we got hooked, but it’s times like this that make me wonder…

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