It’s been way too long since my last blog post (my sincerest apologies to my one follower), and I guess this inactivity can be attributed to being busy, but the truth is I just sort of forgot. Forgetfulness, I’ve now come to realize, is a part of getting older; one of many side effects of the disease, of which I’m now afflicted at 32, known as aging.

In the morning when I look in the mirror, my eyes habitually flick to my hairline and I marvel at just how big a forehead can get. My eyes trace down, settling for a moment on my chest and stomach while a sadistic voice inside my head dares me to do a half-turn and check out the profile. I never do, though, it’s too much to deal with so early on. Instead, it’s just one quick look up—Hairline! Hairline!—then I’m out of the bathroom and headed for the closet, often trying to remember if I ate my Activia last night…

Hanging from hangers, shelved on shelves, I gape at the clothing of a much younger man, a routine of increasing pointlessness. As if I’ll ever again leave the house in that skintight tank-top that says GUARD. So I grab a t-shirt—standard navy or taupe—and, for the eighth day running, step into the same pair of shorts, the type old men wear while whittling pieces of wood. I take the stairs one at a time (if I do every other, I risk the bones in my legs turning to powder), open the fridge to do an Activia count, and then I’m out the door.

Here things get interesting. It seems that the more gray hairs that come to nest above my head, the more eventful operating a car becomes. Do I remember not to back into the recycling bin and spray Werther’s Original boxes and empty Pepto-Bismols all over the street? Do I, like I did a week ago, brake at a stop sign and wait for it to turn green? The other day, I swear to you, I got into the passenger seat, keys in my hand, and actually buckled up and sat there for a moment before realizing something was amiss.

And of all this is just the first part of the morning!

It’s foolish, though, not to also revel in the good stuff that age provides. My golf game sharpens, my writing becomes richer, I have a beautiful baby who actually thinks my jokes are decent…all great things. So I say let’s attack life with good humor as we age, with an eager expectancy of what good things are still to come.

And if you’re young, enjoy all the fruits of youth. Just don’t snigger too much at those of us loading cartons of prune juice into our shopping carts, because, inevitably, that’s you someday, my friend.