An auspicious event occurred recently that I will remember for the rest of my life. No, it’s not the release of the NR 17-rated video “Billy Does DC.”
I became one-half of an octogenarian.
Suddenly, I had become the recipient of all those turning-40 birthday cards that had always seemed so foreign to me in the Hallmark stores.
As my friends and family sang “Happy Birthday” to me, I could only picture Robert Goulet in his current commercial singing, “It’s Impossible.”
How can it be that I have actually become middle-aged? I don’t feel 40 – except when I first get up in the morning and have to spray WD-40 on my spine one vertebra at a time.
Then there are the times I’m running through airports during the day, imagining that I look like O.J. Simpson but catching my reflection in a window and realizing I look more like a doofus as I run into an old lady because I am looking at my reflection.
Then, I’m eating a meal and feel bloated halfway through it and then look forward to a roll of Tums for my after-dinner mints. Somehow, I eat a lot less than I did when I was younger, but seem to weigh more than the rest of my family combined.
Moreover, on the annual occasion of my exercise, I feel winded after tying my shoes and require oxygen if I have to do it twice.
Other than that, I feel just like I did when I was 18. And, I don’t have acne any more.
So you would think I would be feeling pretty fine. But 40? I’m twice as old as people who are 20.
I had always planned on having made a million dollars and retiring at 40. Instead, I think I owe just a little under a million dollars. At this rate, I ought to be about equal with the national debt by the time I’m 80.
What is the secret of my success, you ask? It is simple, yet subtle.
- Try to avoid saying the following restaurants in the same sentence: CiCi’s, MoMo’s, Zuzu’s, EZ’s, JoJos. You just sound silly.
- Avoid the dilemma of either wearing your Sansabelt slacks up to your chest to hide your fully-developed belly or wearing your blue jeans under your fully-developed rear end so you can claim your high-school waist size, by becoming a Buddhist monk and wearing a toga.
- Resist your natural urge to read the obituaries. You’re not going to feel any better if you see someone you know.
Turning 40 is truly a milestone. And as soon as I finish my CiCi’s pizza buffet, pop a few Tums and hitch up my Sansabelt, I’ll be ready for 41.
