The Perils of Age Dysmorphia, Chicken Baseball, and the FAFO Generation

I’m pretty sure “age dysmorphia” isn’t an official term, but for the sake of making my point, let’s say it is and define it as follows: Age dysmorphia is when a group of women in their fifties cannot reconcile the mature reflections they see in the mirror with the immature teenagers they act like (no offence to responsible teenagers everywhere). Now that we’ve got that out of the way, meet my friends. We have age dysmorphia, and I’m pretty sure there’s no cure.

So, how did we end up in the situation you see above? Honestly, it’s not that surprising. Earlier that day, on a bike ride where five of us managed to get lost three times—even after asking for directions four times and with a map in hand—my dear friend Jodi asked, “Where did we go wrong?” Without missing a beat, I replied, “Um, today?” Because, let’s face it, it’s a miracle we’ve made it this far. Separately, we’re all successful, capable adults who clean up nicely in the real world. But put us together, and we instantly regress into the absurd.

Part of the problem, of course, is that we’re card-carrying members of the FAFO (fuck around, find out) generation. Gen X babies, we grew up differently than most of you, and it shows in everything we do. Tossed out the door in the morning and told to be back when the street lights came on, we drank from garden hoses and spent countless hours pushing boundaries and buttons just to see what would happen. So much “finding out” ensued. Sidebar: When someone from Gen X tells you something is a bad idea, listen. They know because they tried it, and it did not end well.

On this particular day, we were determined to play a game in which people attach rubber chickens to their feet while one person, wearing a blindfold, tries to shoot them with a NERF gun by following the sounds the chickens make. This “game,” pulled from TikTok, had been on our very important “crazy shit to do list” for a long time. Plus, these damn rubber chickens had been haunting us for two years, so naturally, I packed them and the NERF guns for our camping trip to Georgian Bay Islands National Park. As any 55-year-old would. Sheesh.

We found a clearing, and after testing out the NERF IMPULSE 100, it quickly became apparent that this could be an environmental disaster. We’re immature, but not irresponsible. The earth matters because this shit will not be funny on Mars. We decided we didn’t want to risk losing little plastic balls in this slice of paradise, so we tucked the guns away and brainstormed “Chicken Baseball.” What could possibly go wrong with seven people wearing rubber chickens on their feet, using bigger rubber chickens to hit a beach ball around a poorly laid-out baseball diamond? Well, we found out—so you don’t have to.

Somewhere in the first inning, Jodi—the same Jodi who hours earlier presciently asked “where did we go wrong?” —slipped on those ridiculous chickens and hit the ground, breaking her collarbone in two places. Age dysmorphia, by the way, lets you believe you’ve got teenage bones, not menopausal ones. Sigh. But wait, it gets better. We were camping on Beausoleil Island—the keyword here being island. We had to call a water ambulance to come from the mainland to get her. Eight responsible adults showed up, and for a split second, we were a teensy bit embarrassed explaining what happened—but then we rallied. What? Like this isn’t going to be prime material in the nursing home one day?

I have to take a moment here to acknowledge that while Jodi’s collarbone may have been broken, her sense of humour was not. Despite the excruciating pain, when the first responders placed her in a chair, she quipped that she looked like Hannibal Lecter—and she was not wrong. See Exhibit A.

While Jodi is the star of this particular shit show, there are some honourable mentions. Special thanks to our token Brit, Jeanette, who went with Jodi to the hospital in Midland and then drove all the way back to London with her that night so the rest of us could start drinking around the campfire. Not all heroes wear capes.

Secondly, props to Christine, a newbie to our group who I invited along because she needed a break (LOL) and got one. Worth noting: Christine is a millennial and really should have known better. She propped up Jodi for well over an hour, keeping her as comfortable as possible until the first responders put Jodi in her chair. On the way to the boat, Christine whispered to Jodi that she always wanted to be a neonatal nurse, but that geriatrics might be her calling. Touché, you punk-ass kid, touché. Also, you’re in the club now, lady—we appreciate a good burn.

Now for some rapid-fire answers to all the burning questions you may have:

No, we weren’t drunk.
Yes, we thought this was a good idea.
No, this is not the worst idea we’ve ever had.
Yes, we will absolutely do dumb shit again.

@candacesaid

Who knew ‘chicken baseball’ could be a full-contact sport? One broken collarbone (in two places), one boat ambulance, and zero lessons learned. #GenX #Besties #Friends #thisis50

♬ Welcome To The Jungle – Guns N’ Roses

Finally, what did we learn from this experience? Nothing. But maybe you did—someone has to.