10) You still imagine yourself participating when you watch steamy love scenes at the movies -- only now you consider how you'd break a damned hip, if you were to carry on like that.


9) Your idea of a date involves an episode of 'Diagnosis: Murder' and a Denny's Grand Slam breakfast. With the right girl, maybe there'll be canasta afterward.


8) Two words: coin purse.


7) You've given up on finding yourself a smoking hot MILF, and set your sights on a nice matronly GILF, instead. You'd better hope she's a Polydent user, Romeo.


6) Watching your favorite TV programs evokes thoughts like: 'I wonder why Bea Arthur and that Dick Van Dyke fellow never got together. They could have had the most handsome children!'


5) Girls no longer give you their phone numbers in bars; instead, they give you the number of a good toupee fitter.


4) Four more words: 1984 Buick Riviera sedan.


3) The barber shaves your ears during a haircut. He doesn't even ask -- he just does it.


2) You notice your nipples getting more tender and sensitive. It's from your belt chafing them when you've pulled your pants up under your armpits. Who are you, Ed Grimley's dad?


1) You make Saturday Night Live references from before anyone reading this was even born. You'll clearly never be sexy again -- you ignorant slut.

So, I'm old now. I turned thirty-five a while back, which means the ride's pretty much winding down, right? A couple of years watching Matlock and listening to Lawrence Welk, and then it's all over. That's okay -- it's been pretty much downhill since... well, since... hrm. Come to think of it, I don't remember any 'uphill' to speak of. I imagine the whole breastfeeding thing was probably pretty sweet, but I don't recall any of that. And it's a little creepy to think about at this point, so that's probably okay.


Anyway, the most important thing for me in my 'twilight years' is that I don't forget anything else. I never knew all that much to begin with; I can't afford to lose any of the few facts I've managed to pound into my neurons. So, I've got to try to stay sharp, keep the old brain from mushing up.


To that end, I've recruited my wife to help. We've set up a system to help each other keep our minds fresh. Not that she has to worry about getting old, of course. She'll be twenty-three for the next thirty years. Or so she tells me. Maybe her math skills are already deteriorating -- I don't dare to ask.


At any rate, we've decided to keep our thinkers in top shape with some random quizzing. When we run into each other -- in the kitchen, on the couch, in the shower, whereever -- we'll toss out a question or two, to keep the gray matter wiggling. So, for instance, I might see her making the bed, and ask:


'Quick! What's the capital of Morocco?'


And then she'll think for a bit, and come up with an answer. Unfortunately, I don't actually know what the capital of Morocco is, so I can't tell her whether she's right. Not exactly ideal. So, I try and ask easier ones, that I can get right myself. Like 'what comes after Tuesday?', or 'what's the dog's name?'. Or, even better:


'Hey -- name a sexual position involving cheese!'


(No? Don't know that one? I'll give you a minute.)


(Still scratching your noggin? I was looking for 'The Flying Dutchman'. The judges would have also accepted 'Gouda Vibrations', 'Madam, I'm Edam', or 'Camembert-ly Legal'. Rawr.)


Of course, the questions I get back are a little different. First of all, my wife is exceptionally intelligent. So, at first, she was asking me to take the square root of some big number or other, or translate some gibberish from French or Japanese or Sanskrit, or to spell some ridiculous word with nineteen letters and a silent 'v'. Eventually, when those questions left me stunned and drooling, she dumbed them down for me. So that works out. Sometimes.


The other problem is that I'm a guy. Thirty-something. Sports fan. Lazy. Not so terribly bright. So, often her quizzing strategy changes a bit. She'll see me lying on the couch, watching TV, and ask:


'Are you going to waste the whole day like that?'


(Easy one. 'Yes. Yes, I am.' Duh.)


Or maybe: 'When are you going to make something of yourself?'


(Uhhhhhh. Damn. That's a toughie. Pass.)


How about: 'What happened to the man I married?'


(Jeez, another head-scratcher. Lessee... How about, 'he discovered the joy of Chee-tos and beer'. Is it 'discovered Chee-tos and beer'? Honey? Hello? What's the right answer?)


Meh. Maybe it's better my mind should go soft. At least then I won't remember missing all those questions. Sweet dementia, here I come!

I've come to the conclusion that I'm growing gradually stupider.


The decline was inevitable, I suppose. At thirty-five, my best mental years have been behind me for a decade or more, at least. Soon enough, they'll fit me for my padded helmet, and feed me applesauce with a foam-covered spork.


Until then, I'm swimming in that uncomfortable limbo we all reach, sooner or later. I'm 'out there' every day, being mildly productive and accumulating experience in the ways of the world. That's valuable, certainly. I know far more tax laws and Scrabble words than I ever did at twenty. Meanwhile, I can't remember my license plate number, and I stand in the shower every morning wondering whether or not I've washed my hair yet.


The evidence of my impending stupidity is all around me. At work, I have this conversation a lot:


Me: Wait. Why the hell is [whichever database we're working with] built like this?
Co-worker: Well, it's --

Me: I mean, it doesn't make any damned sense!
Co-worker: Yes, but --

Me: What kind of raving jackass would build it like that?
Co-worker: Um... you.

Me: I... really? I did that?
Co-worker: Yup.

Me: What the hell was I thinking?
Co-worker: Well, at the time, you said [perfectly clear and reasonable explanation for why the database is built the way it is]. So that's how we did it.

Me: Oh. Right. What I said, then.


The longer ago it happened, the better the ideas get. And the longer it takes me to catch on to what past-Charlie was thinking. I imagine myself as a fetal genius, doodling differential equations and painting breathtaking frescas on the uterine wall. These days, I'm lucky to put on my pants without falling over sideways.


(Oh, and don't get your hopes up. That 'longer ago, better ideas' doesn't seem to apply to the weblog. The archives are full of nonsense exactly like this. I just spell a little better now, is all.)


The same thing happens at home. I subscribe to a puzzle magazine -- because I'm obviously not wasting enough time, right? And I'll occasionally pick up a back issue to try out one of the brain teasers. More than once, I've sat, drooling and stumped by a tricky poser... only to notice the answer, in my own handwriting, scribbled on the side of the page.


It's one thing to be taunted by a sibling or classmate or spouse who's smarter than you. But to have your nose rubbed in your mushy brain by yourself, from three years ago? That's just fucking wrong. I can almost picture me writing it, too, and pointing a jeering finger into the future with a Nelsonesque 'Ha-hah!' That just seems like something I'd do. Asshole.


I suppose I should take my increasing idiocy in stride. It's happening to all of us -- except my wife, she smugly assures me -- so why fight it? I'm as smart as I'm ever going to be, and somewhat less smarterer than I was before. So what if I start watching reality TV and need my social security number tattooed on my forearm? At least the writing here won't change. Maybe I'll even take a couple of you down with me. Watch out!