The Dad Bod Diaries — Week 3: Life is what happens after a rake of pints

There’s a specific lie we tell ourselves in middle age... and it usually arrives disguised as optimism

Bernard O'Shea: 'Every social catch-up now comes with collateral damage. You pay for it physically. You pay for it in sleep. You pay for it the next day when you’re standing in the kitchen at 11am, wondering how a man who ate 'sensibly' last night can feel this fragile.'

IN YOUR 20s, one night was a blip. In your 40s, one night is a domino. It tips into the next day, the day after that, your sleep, your appetite, your mood, your knees and bizarrely your left eyebrow.

This realisation landed on me recently on the night our old friend group finally managed to meet up at Christmas — a logistical miracle on par with the moon landing. One lad is home from Canada, briefly, like a migrating bird. Another has to work early the next morning. Two of us trying to organise childcare, mental energy, and a vague sense of who we used to be when going out didn’t require planning permission.

We sat around a table doing the thing middle-aged men do best: Immediately talking about everything except how we actually are. At some point, the conversation drifted. “Right,” one of the lads snapped, cutting across the table “Stop. We’re not talking about hair transplants.” There was a pause. A silence thick with acceptance. Nobody argued.

Because the subtext wasn’t about hair. It was about ageing. About the moment you realise you are no longer a work-in-progress, you are now maintenance. And this is where the Dad Bod enters the room, clears its throat, and sits down beside you. I went home that night having technically behaved myself. A couple of pints. No madness. No 2am kebab. I even felt smug.

Then morning arrived ...

The next day is when the real damage happens. In my 20s, the night out was the event. The next day was a soft landing — greasy breakfast, laugh about it, a swim maybe, carry on.

Now the night is just the opening act. The hangover has a sequel. A director’s cut. An emotional arc. It’s not that alcohol wrecks the night — it’s that it disrupts the systems you’re trying to build. Sleep goes. Routine goes. The next day becomes a negotiation instead of a plan.

This is the point where Jill Taylor usually appears — not physically, but spiritually — somewhere between the kettle boiling and me staring into the fridge like it might have answers. Jill is my once-a-week anchor. My nutritional North Star. 

Bernard O'Shea: 'I’ve started to see now that in my 20s, my body snapped back like a rubber band. In my 40s, it returns like an old hoover cable — slowly, unevenly, with bits that don’t quite retract anymore.'

The calm voice that listens to me recount a week like a man giving evidence. No matter what chaos I present her with — Christmas nights out, disrupted sleep, missed walks, emotional ice cream binges— she repeats the same line, gently, relentlessly: “Don’t let one bad day turn into a bad week.”

It sounds simple. But it’s devastatingly accurate. This is where I normally fall apart. I had promised myself: stay on track, no food after 6pm, be the new Bernard. But the morning after a social occasion, your body doesn’t care about your diary. It wants comfort. Familiarity. Carbs that feel like an apology. But Jill’s voice keeps popping up, uninvited but useful.

One bad day. Not a bad week

Middle age isn’t about avoiding bad days. They’re unavoidable. It’s about stopping the spiral. I’ve started to see now that in my 20s, my body snapped back like a rubber band. In my 40s, it returns like an old hoover cable — slowly, unevenly, with bits that don’t quite retract anymore.

And the same applies to friendship.

The beauty of that Christmas night wasn’t the pints — it was how quickly we fell back into ourselves. Same jokes. Same arguments. Same absolute nonsense. We hadn’t seen each other properly in months, but within 10 minutes it was like no time had passed at all. That’s middle-aged friendship: Long silences, instant closeness.

But here’s the quiet cost no one talks about — every social catch-up now comes with collateral damage. You pay for it physically. You pay for it in sleep. You pay for it the next day when you’re standing in the kitchen at 11am, wondering how a man who ate ‘sensibly’ last night can feel this fragile. That’s where Jill’s line matters. Because the real danger isn’t the pint, or the dessert, or the disrupted sleep. 

It’s the sentence: “Ah, sure, I’ve ruined it now.” That sentence turns one bad day into seven. I’m starting to understand that I’m not fighting my body — I’m negotiating with history.

My metabolism remembers my 20s

My joints remember my 30s. My appetite seems to think I’m still playing five-a-side twice a week and can burn off a full Chinese takeaway by accident.

But I’m not that man anymore.

And there was a moment, standing there the morning after the lads’ night, coffee in hand, stomach humming like a faulty fridge, when the John Lennon line landed fully: Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.

Life showed up dressed as friendship, nostalgia, pints, laughter. Not what did you eat? Not how much damage was done. Just: what did you do next? Here’s the uncomfortable truth I’m learning: I can’t live like I’m 25 and recover like I’m 45. I have to pick one. That doesn’t mean no nights out. It doesn’t mean becoming a monk. It means accepting that everything has a knock-on effect now — food, drink, sleep, routine, even joy.

The Dad Bod isn’t caused by one bad choice. It’s caused by thousands of tiny, understandable ones — usually justified the morning after. So this week isn’t about failure. It’s about interruption. As for next week? Recovery.

Or at least, learning how not to punish myself for being human.