It’s the Little Things That Make a Guy Feel His Age

Certain milestones stick with a guy--the first time you notice that a centerfold is younger than you, the first time a flight attendant calls you “sir.”

Now, suddenly, it’s doctors who are younger. Which makes it official: Middle Age.

“That your Porsche down there?” I ask the young doctor, looking out his office window at a purple convertible.

“No,” he says, “I have a Jaguar.”

Frankly, I’d prefer a doctor who drives a Porsche, but I’m not picky about my doctors. If one will see me, I will see him. I spend more time selecting my socks.

“Asthma?” he asks, going over some checklist.

“No.”

“Allergies?” he queries.

“No.”

“Ever had sex with a prostitute?”

Now there’s a delicate question. One second, we’re talking about cars and allergies. The next we’re talking about sex for hire, which is a little personal, even in this era of openness.

In fact, I’ve never taken that particular plunge, but you always sort of wonder if you’re the only guy who hasn’t, and--ask almost anyone--there are no relationships where money is not an issue or a certain amount of bartering doesn’t take place. Sex is almost always for sale on some level, whether it involves a Fiji vacation or braces for the kids.

“No,” I finally say, but I can see the skepticism in the doctor’s eyes.

I go in for a checkup once every three or four years, usually a different doctor each time.

I’m reaching the age where when you go for a checkup, they decide that it’s probably time to use some large scoping device, roughly the size of a lawn mower, to check out your colon or one of your other inner tubes.

“I know there’s something wrong somewhere,” a doctor always seems to say.

Which is OK, so long as they don’t get too personal. If I wanted a lot of physical contact, I’d have brought wine and flowers.

“So, anything bothering you?” the doctor finally asks.

Now, doesn’t that just open a can of tapeworms.

Anything bothering me? Well, yeah. I have this hitch in my golf swing and a stutter in my backhand.

I know every inch of pavement on the 20-mile drive to work, having driven it every day for a dozen years. Not that it bothers me. Well, yeah, sometimes it bothers me.

And, since you’ve asked, I’ve got this ringing in my ears, but I think it’s just the kids, of which we have 12 or 14, I can’t keep track. They’re in and out of the house with their noisy little friends at all hours, slamming the front door and leaving Dr Pepper cans all over the place.

By the way, ever notice how the girls wear rings on their thumbs and nothing over their tummies? That bother you, doc? It bothers me.

Anything else bothering me? Yeah, this Enron thing really chills my chestnuts. If there’s anyone who scares me more than a guy with a gun, it’s some suit with an MBA degree and a “fiduciary responsibility to the corporation.” That scares me.

What’s bothering me? Well, both cars are burning oil, and I’m scared like hell to bring them in, knowing it’s going to be 2,000 bucks no matter what.

And since you asked, something else is sort of bothering me. I worry that I fantasize an unhealthful amount--night and day, really--but lately it’s not just about sports, like you might guess, but food, too. I can spot a good pair of chicken legs at 100 yards, smell a sizzling plate of ribs at 100 miles. Before breakfast, I’m thinking about lunch.

Speaking of lunch, I’ve spent most of my Irish life shunning a noon beer when now I hear that a drink or two a day may actually be good for you, and what kind of message is the medical world trying to send us anyway--that we’re eating too much and drinking too little?

Praise the surgeon general and pass me a cold Coors.

Anything bothering me?

No, not really, but my wife insists I’m colorblind, when in fact I’m pretty sure it’s just a matter of bad taste or poor lighting.

“Halle Berry’s black?” I exclaimed recently while watching the Oscars.

“See, you’re colorblind,” my wife said.

“Woody Allen’s white?” I said.

“See?” she said.

Not without my glasses.

But my memory is pretty good, near as I can remember. Been married almost 20 years. Twenty, a number I keep coming back to in my head, another number that can’t be right.

Lately, my life is full of numbers that can’t be right. My daughter’s 18. My car’s 12.

The Master Card balance is always a thousand bucks too high, and my 401k is down at least 20k. It’s now, technically, a 381k retirement account. Where’s one of those eager MBAs when you need one?

Anything bothering me? The Lakers are erratic on defense and the Dodgers are charging $8 just to park. To park, mind you. For that, a person could go to a movie, where happy endings are assured but the food costs more.

See, there I go again with the food, when really what I should be thinking about is my next drink, which would lead to another drink, and then I’d be more healthy. Fit as a fiddle. Healthy as a horse. A Clydesdale probably, hitched to my own beer wagon.

So, since you asked, there are a few little things that are bothering me as I enter Middle Age. Not many. Hundred, tops. It’s hard to know just where to start.

“Anything bothering you?” the doctor asks, his pen poised, his clipboard ready.

“No, not really,” I say.

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Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is chris.erskine@latimes.com.