postcard-from-l-a: A man and his manopause

There are moments, at age 57, when I feel stiff and rusty, like something Picasso welded together. For instance, I ate so many marinated mushrooms the other night that I threw out my back. I also cleaned the garage earlier that day, which probably didn’t help.

It also didn’t help that my wife stressed me out over what I could throw out. We clashed on a fundamental level. She argued that nothing in the garage needed to go; I argued that it could all go, the whole dusty wad of outgrown toys and wounded garden gear, the 30 or so wicker baskets she stacks along the back wall. (Theoretically, you could survive with five wicker baskets, opening up vast territories where I could then store half-full cans of gunky house paint.)

After about 30 minutes of arguing over such drivel, we decided to convene a special congressional committee to look into cleaning our garage. In small ways like that, you can save a marriage.

But can my aching back be saved? And can American men like me grow old gracefully? By most accounts, no.

The other night I’m sitting on the couch, and my son, the young one who will be the death of me, is slapping at my exposed calf muscle, laughing as it swings on the back of my leg. Where once my legs were taut, almost ripped, they now appear to be globby glandular things. Yeah, it’s frightening.

Time magazine recently dubbed this particular phase “manopause,” the male version of what most women go through in their 50s.

Manopause? More and more, I am reminded that guys my age are becoming grandpas. More and more, I’m attending funerals instead of weddings. I cry at both.

You know, I never bought into that notion that from the time we are born, we start to die. How negative. In fact, from the moment of conception, we get stronger, bigger, faster, funnier (no small thing, funnier).

Then at middle-age, an actual physical fade ensues, not to mention more hair in all the wrong places. Is that manopause or a robust virility that even time can’t take away? It’s all in your attitude, I guess, and your awareness of male wear and tear.

To that end, I work our regularly — running, swimming and, in the middle of the night, thrashing in my sleep, as if tumbling backward out an open window. Add that all together, and it represents a very active life.

Meanwhile, Time reports that testosterone is the new drug of choice in the fight against male aging (and resultant insecurities).

You remember testosterone, right? History’s rocket fuel. Take away testosterone and you take away Marco Polo, the Mayflower and the Apollo moon program.

You may also take away Hitler, Stalin and the Islamic State. In the wrong hands, testosterone is the Molotov cocktail of the mind.

Now, according to Time, testosterone clinics are attempting to put the boom back into baby boomers. Prescriptions for crazy juice reached $2.4 billion in the U.S. last year and are projected to rise 60% more by 2018, according to Global Industry Analysts.

What are these guys doing? Pouring it on their pancakes?

Maybe I should sample some.

“Testosterone supplements are one of the most over-prescribed drugs out there,” warns my internist. “The vast majority of middle-aged or older men do not have low testosterone. “Before you shell out for the blood test and the testosterone, try putting down the nachos, cutting back on the Amstel Light and hitting the gym,” he advises. “You will feel better and won’t have to worry about your testicles shrinking, your prostate expanding or your acne looking like it did when you were worried about who you should ask to the senior prom.”

Look, I’ll be the first to admit that nothing is what it once was — even me. Used to be I’d never nap. Used to be I was the fleetest flanker on the football team, on calves that could outrun time itself.

Change is often unsettling. I’ve never really trusted it.

And, eventually, we all become our fathers.

Here’s lookin’ at you, Dad ... in the bathroom mirror ... in the reflection in a cup of coffee. In the end, I couldn’t outrun you either.

chris.erskine@latimes.com

Twitter: @erskinetimes