Thirty-something speaks
This is getting serious
Mike Maddock

It's October now. The leaves are starting to change colors. My kids are discussing Halloween costumes, and I can finally walk outside (at least in the morning) without breaking into a sweat. I enjoy most of what this month has to offer, but there is one small problem. October is birthday month for me.

I can remember when that was a good thing. It meant presents and parties. It meant a couple hours at McDonalds back when the playground was outside, the slides were metal, the play surface was thick gravel, and Grimace was a purple merry-go-round of terror. It meant quality time at the skating rink shooting the duck under a disco ball to the sounds of Donna Summer with the D.J. saying, "Let's all do the hustle, it's Mike Maddock's birthday today!" Those were the good ol' days. Birthdays were fun and getting older was a treat.

My how times have changed.

I'm turning 37 this month, and I'm afraid this aging thing is getting serious now. Forget the fact my birthday has morphed into an afterthought. All three of my children celebrate birthdays within days of me, so my wife and parents are thinking about spend--the-night parties, American Girl dolls, and Batman action figures. They're not thinking about the fact that a mid-life crisis is looming just around the corner for me. This is probably a good thing, but they shouldn't be surprised if I show up at Chuck E. Cheese in a convertible Corvette with my collar flipped up blasting rap music. Stranger things have happened.

The warning signs are hard to accept. I understand the nose hair trimmer in my bathroom drawer has now replaced the brush as the single most important grooming apparatus in my arsenal, and I know why I now pay more attention to the vast array of medical products advertised on television than the beer commercials. Unfortunately, antidotes for swollen prostates and back pain seem more attractive to me than surgically enhanced women demonstrating the value of light beer. I can deal with that.

What I can't deal with are cold, hard numbers. You can't run from 37. I actually did try running last Sunday. I haven't been able to stand up straight or walk without a limp since. It's a pitiful thing.

In my head, I'm still an 18-year-old kid sporting a mullet and a pair of Jams cruising down Ocean Boulevard blasting The Outfield, but in reality 18-year-olds are looking at me funny and calling me "Sir."

My wife and my mother think I'm crazy to worry about such nonsense. Their favorite thing to say to me is, "Hey, it beats the alternative." But all that does is get me thinking about death. I'm worried about hair in the most unfortunate of places, being a "Sir," and doctors with rubber gloves, and they have the nerve to say, "Well, at least you're not dead." How comforting!

If only it were that simple. I'm clinging to my youth as long as my sore aching, muscles will allow, and God is saying, "Whoa there little fellow, how about some more ear hair and a slipped disk."

Don't get me wrong. I love life, and I'll probably celebrate my birthday with a McDonalds cheeseburger and some disco. I just wish there were a few more alternatives in the aging process.

mike@TheColumbiaStar.com