Fantz in Your Pants: Mediocre melody

Dear Christy,

I went to see Robert Ballard (of Titanic fame) talk at CU, and watching this guy didn’t help my life situation. He’s 73, has four Ph.Ds, and owns a Navy ship he turned into a research vessel. I’m crowding 60, had arthroscopic knee surgery, have a B.A. in economics (micro or macro, can’t remember), two sales awards (big deal) and a picture of me with a 117-pound yellowfin tuna (proud of that one). I feel like I need to do something more. I weigh about 190 pounds, so a heavyweight title is not in the cards.

—Feeling Mediocre in Boulder

Silver Fox:

Sugar tush, I don’t blame you for not knowing which flavor economics you studied. It’s all mikrós/makrós to me. (Good one, Fantz.) At least your diploma isn’t on the endangered degree(sies) list.

Look, although Ballard is badass, we all can’t reach for the stars. They’re way too high and the couch is right here. The glass of whiskey rocks is to your left and the stench of a blazing joint is nigh. On top of all that’s comfortable, “Game of Thrones” is on — or whatever you kids are babbling about on social media these days. (I’m only on season six of “The Simpsons.”)

So screw the stars.

Definitely don’t try to tuck four doctorates under that salt-n-peppa armpit hair. Not only do doctors have an aversion to smothering spaces, but they also enjoy aluminum, not that hippie-deodorant blend. Plus, four doctorates would take… Um. A shitload of time.

And who has that kind of time when there are rickety knees in need of WD-40, sales awards to be bedazzled and a large tuna to tug it to? (Be proud of that yellowfin. I hope you ripped that skin back, caressed it with wasabi lube and tore into that bitch like Walter Sobchak would of Bessie’s sweet tenderloin. Or, you know, released it.)

Be proud of your accomplishments. As long as you aren’t gluing pen cameras under toilet seats or eating mud pies and crying to caterpillars, you’re doing just fine. (Unless the mud pies have sprinkles. Or the caterpillars have hookahs.)

If you want to feel special, go save an animal from the shelter. It has euphoric rewards and gives the little fuzz a new pal. High-five strangers. Tell the mirror that you’re a love machine. Try on a pair of skinny jeans and put out the vibe at the DMV. Drive to the foothills, blast those 8-tracks and scream, “I am the victor!” (Not to be confused with vicar. Unless you are an ecclesiastical rep. Then your bad.) Or take your buddies to Black Hawk, deep-throat Krab legs, play penny slots and rejoice that you’re not that bearded lady who’s carrying her gut around with a walker.

You’re a successful silver fox living in beautiful Boulder. You’re doing just fine.

Now go get your wife Vagazzled and pop those endorphins in the bedroom, with a little help from sildenafil. (A spoonful of pharmaceuticals makes the estrogen go down. In the most delightful way.)

Christy Fantz: twitter.com/fantzypants