I had another birthday last week.

I got home from work and asked the missus, "Honey, since it's my birthday, do you want to go out and paint the town red?"

"Yeah," she yelled back from the kitchen. "That's a good idea. If you get home before I do, leave the porch light on."

She's been watching too much Comedy Channel.

I am by no means ancient, but I ain't as spry as I used to be either.

A little while back, I went to the doctor for a regular checkup and I pointed out this little star-shaped spot near my hair line (my hair, by the way, is still full and thick and rich and luxurious as it has always been) which I had kind of been concerned about.

I figured it was just some sort of physio-anomaly that just sort of popped up. Either that, or it was where the aliens had branded me so when they returned, they would be able to easily recognize the ones they plan to gather up and tractor-beam to the mother ship. (You know they're out there, hovering around just outside of Hubble Telescope range, waiting to make their move; the attractive, smart ones will be spared and the rest will be put to work in the bituminous cauldron forges and mine pits).

"What is this spot on the side of my head right here, doc?" I asked, placing my index finger just under it.

He looked at it with all the wise and analytical expertise of your basic board-certified, multidegreed, intellectually savvy medical professional, and said, "Why that's a (he used some long medical word I didn't understand)."

"Oh yeah," I said, somewhat less concerned about it now because the way he responded seemed to imply that it was nothing serious, "and what does that mean?"

"Oh, it's just one of those things you get as you get older."

So, see, it wasn't anything serious.

But now instead of being concerned about the fact that it was on my head, now I was concerned about the distinct possibility that there might be more of these things popping up.

I can't have that. My face is too pretty to be invaded by little star-shaped physio-anomalies.

It seems this might or might not occur. It's one of those things that you just never know about.

This getting older thing is wearing me out. I remember a time not that many years ago when I could play 36 holes of golf (shucks, I remember when we, on occasion, would play 54) the same day and not think twice about it. Now, by the time I get to hole number 15, I start complaining about "running out of gas."

Complaining is also apparently something that accompanies getting older. But that's not going to happen to me. I would hate to think that I would become one of those cranky old guys who whines and moans about every little thing.

Like, for example, that big steel plate they have out in the middle of O'Neal Street. There's a big slick piece of metal out in the middle of the road, raised higher than the pavement with some asphalt around it. I hope the city is going to pay to have the front end of my vehicle aligned from having to drive over that thing.

See, I hope I'm never the kind of guy who would complain about something silly like that.

I would never do that.

Nor would I ever complain about the traffic lights and how they seem to me to be out of synch. I would never complain about things like that, because they just don't bother me.

No sir.

Not at all.

Because once you get to that point, you might as well buy yourself some of those beltless slacks, some white shoes and send away for some Florida condo pamphlets.

Another thing I've noticed about this getting older thing is that I'm developing this little pot belly where my nearly-flat stomach used to be.

Now how did that happen?

I went to bed one night able to see my toes and woke up looking like one of those fat little troll dolls that was popular back in the 70s. If I grow some long straight hair and dye it green, I'd be a perfect match.

I guess I'm going to have to join a gym or something.

What do you wear to one of those places anyway?

Reckon white shoes and beltless slacks are OK?

Klonie Jordan (editor@gaffneyledger.com) is executive editor of The Gaffney Ledger.