In the last year, the first number in my age became a 5. Now, I have not had the reaction one might think I’d have. I didn’t run out and get my lips bee-stung and while I can comb my hair with a towel, I have yet to put in an order for Propecia. It’s just getting older and it’s not too bad as long as you don’t mind permanently sore hips and the fact that you may end up in the ER if you sneeze while doing math in your head. Otherwise, I’m good.

We have so much more information these days than when my dad became first-number-5. When he did that back in the late 1990s, his doctor probably introduced his forefinger to old Mr. Rectum and told him to keep up his calcium levels. If such tests were done in the early 1970s, I’m sure the doctor even put out his cigarette to give a similar test to my grandfather. Nowadays, medical advancements help us avoid some terrible outcomes that were otherwise a fact of life for older people. And there seems to be a much more informed online peanut gallery in terms of how to age well. We now have several thousand people telling us how to be a 22-year-old 60-year-old and a 30-year-old retiree.

As far as I can tell, I should eat loads of spinach, one steak a week, chicken like it’s going out of style, and fill my mornings with flax, grapefruit, vitamins B, C, D, magnesium, and zinc. In between shovelling those things into my mouth, I need to run, lift, do palates, and as many push-ups as I can without dying on the floor. I can have one soda a year, one beer a decade, and if I so much as look at tobacco my face is going to explode.

No problemo.