How could this guy be 50 already?

A longtime acquaintance of mine turned 50 last week. I'd tell you his name, but he'd rather I didn't. Some people won't understand his reluctance -- people who are 60, for instance.

I know this guy pretty well, although there are times when he does things that make me wonder if I know him at all, such as the time he asked a distant relative how her husband was doing and she informed him that he had died -- nine years earlier. He took this to mean the man wasn't doing well. Or the time he was introduced to a man and asked him if the man next to him was his father. It was his brother.

Sometimes this acquaintance of mine is a complete idiot. Turning 50 won't help. Brain cells are vaporizing as we speak.

He thought he would keep No. 50 a secret. Then his mother happily reported to him on his birthday that she had stood up in church that morning and announced it. So there it is.

Fifty? How did that happen, he wonders? Five decades. Half a century. Six hundred months. Eighteen thousand, two hundred and fifty sunsets and sunrises.

How can he be 50, he wonders? Fifty was the age of his friends' fathers when he was growing up. Ward Cleaver is 50. Teachers are 50. Presidents are 50. Editors are 50. Dan Rather was born 50. NFL coaches are 50. Governors are 50. They always seemed so . . . How do I say this? . . . old. Now that he's here, it doesn't seem old at all.

He thought 50 would be so different. He thought he'd feel like a "grown-up." He thought he would like the symphony by now. And broccoli. He thought he'd know what the "Dow Industrials" are. Sheesh, he still shoots hoops in the driveway by himself and eats cold cereal before he goes to bed. He still giggles in church sometimes, now with his own kids. He can't even do his own taxes. But he did learn what a 401(k) is. He never did find out what a carburetor is.

My friend hasn't learned any great truths to pass along, except this one: If you microwave a bag of popcorn for five minutes, it makes a spectacular mess.

He goes days now without looking in a mirror with more than a passing glance. It's easier that way. When he does look, he takes inventory: a few gray hairs on the side, wrinkles, yadda, yadda, yadda. He started wearing reading glasses last year when he discovered his arms weren't long enough to read the newspaper. For the first time in his life, one of his knees is bothering him.

Yep, the decline is happening. It's all downhill from here. He's disappointed to find he's just like everybody else. Not that he thought he wasn't; it's that he hadn't thought about it at all, and now it's a surprise. He would have preferred to skip this whole business, but the alternative is not appealing. Dying, I mean.

My old friend tries to be calm about turning 50, but underneath the nonchalance about it, he's really about as cool as the Titanic passengers when she started taking on water. He's like a football coach who just looked up at the scoreboard and suddenly realized it's late in the third quarter and the score is tied and he hasn't used about half of his playbook. He wants to order the two-minute offense.

This is what he's thinking on his 50th birthday, looking in a mirror, my old acquaintance staring back at me.

Doug Robinson's column runs on Tuesdays. Please send e-mail to drob@desnews.com.

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