Life begins at 41!!! What a crock of...

...well I won't say what it is a crock of, but you can bet it's not Wenseydale.

I turned 41 yesterday. Yes, that's right, I share a birthday with Albert Einstein. Also, at times the hair is similar as well.

Mainly though, I'm getting quite old.

I think my least favorite thing about getting older is when geriatrics look at you and say, "You're still a young man!" By Methuselah's or U. S. Senator Robert Byrd's standards, perhaps this is true. However, both of these men were middle aged at 300 (Byrd is 784, I'm told) so that's small comfort for a man whose earthly life expectancy, without factoring the bacon consumption in, is around 74.

The truth is that old age pensioners think that anyone who can break into a trot or has a fully functioning prostate is young. "Still eatin' roast with your real teeth, laddie? You're a mere pup!"

No, age has descended on me like expletive-laden reviews on an Ashley Simpson album. It has wrapped itself all over me like Billy Bob Thornton on a second date. It's has wracked my body like a Metamucil brownie. I must accept it. I must not depend on feel-good cliches about nearing my "golden years" or running jokes about how I'm "only 39" (Sorry, Mr. Benny). The only thing golden about becoming elderly is the annual urine sample to the urologist, so he can smile and crack jokes like, "Well, good news! It's still liquid!" Bastard.

I'm old. That's that and there's no denying it.

So, someone hand me a wheelchair and let's hit the pitch for a game of football. I think I can still slide tackle from this thing.

I may be old, but I'm not dead.