I turned 57 today, and I’m not too happy about it. Everything about getting old is bad, at least physically. I just got back from our annual family reunion (see my Pulitzer Prize-losing article, Reunions Aren’t for Sissies) and when my brothers and I lined up for the family picture we looked like the snow-covered Alps. Except for my older brother, who had shaved his gray hair off completely. Being bald doesn’t make him look younger, it just looks like his head has fossilized, so he still fits in the Alps analogy. One of my younger sisters turned 50 this year, however, she isn’t gray in the slightest, thanks to industrial strength hair color, lovingly applied hourly. She’s changed her hair color so many times she must be using Crayola Hair Color. If our climate changes as much as her hair we’re going to have 52 seasons each year.

We used the occasion of the reunion to roast my sister for hitting the big five-oh. However, roasting her for her age proved to be a problem for me. It’s hard to make fun of someone else’s age when you’re the one exhibiting all the symptoms of dementia. I couldn’t read my notes without my glasses, I forgot half of what I was going to say, and I think I combined the wrong punch line with the wrong joke (judging by the reaction anyway). It made me remember when I didn’t need glasses or any other medical aids to perform the simplest of functions (and mocking my sister has always been the simplest of functions).

Which brings me to why I’m crotchety. If I see one more Viagra commercial somebody’s gonna get hurt. When I was young all the ads directed at people my age were for virile products, sold by hot women promising even hotter times. Now the products directed towards me are sold by old women with hot flashes. I don’t need someone promising me that my flag can be waving in the breeze rather than being at half-mast all the time. I don’t need to be like today’s sports stars with my own performance-enhancing drug. Especially when it comes with serious side effects. They tell you that if “you experience an erection lasting longer than four hours you should seek medical help.” For crying out loud, when you’re young you have a four-hour erection when you’re not even in the mood, now it’s a medical emergency. Like I’m actually going to go into a crowded hospital waiting room and inform them that my elevator’s stuck on the top floor. I’d rather tell them I’m having a heart attack (which cuts your waiting time down to three hours) and say “Oh, by the way, could you check below, I can’t seem to get out of first gear.”

Speaking of side effects, there are some pretty interesting ones for the performance enhancer that deals with the “potty problem.” The medicine that is supposed to make you “go” better has two side effects; It gives you a runny nose and your sperm count goes down. Now any medicine that affects my sperm count while it’s fixing the plumbing is going to make me wonder if the medicine really knows what it’s doing down there. After all, it’s supposed to be unclogging the drain, not turning off the hot water spigot. And I certainly hope the runny nose isn’t a clue to where the missing sperm are going. I don’t want to have to worry about getting some poor girl pregnant every time I sneeze.

Anyway, I figure being crotchety is the only reference left to that region that will be working in the future. There’s just nothing great about getting old, and I’m not very happy about it.

I could go on, but the drugs are starting to take effect, I’ve got to go wake the missus and then call the ambulance. After all, I’m not getting any younger.