Growing older doesn't bother me, but the number 44 makes me crazy. Forty-four is a dumb, stupid, lousy number, and I hate it. I have no quarrel with 24 and 34, which are polite, fun-loving numbers. I really enjoyed spending time with them, and I'd love to see them again. I'm sure that 54, 64 and 74 will also treat me with the respect I deserve. (I'm not quite ready to think about 84 and 94.) But 44 and its fellow 40s are mean, rotten, despicable numbers that should be condemned and scolded by the other numbers. They should be banished from any place where decent, God-fearing numbers gather and socialize. The 40s should be locked up in a federal prison until they can behave themselves.

Like a schoolyard bully, 44 mercilessly taunts and teases me. It constantly reminds me that I'm unable to do many of the things I did when I was younger. ("Come on, Mr. Big Shot, let's see you do 100 sit-ups and 50 push-ups like you did in high school. Let's see you run a mile in less than six minutes. Let's see you dance on top of a refrigerator like you did at that wild party in 1978.") Forty-four makes fun of my receding hairline. ("Look on the bright side, pal—you still have plenty of hair in your ears.") It cruelly jokes about my faltering memory. ("Forgot where you put the car keys again, eh? Maybe they got tangled up in all that ugly ear hair. Ha ha ha!") Forty-four mocks my failing eyesight. ("Do the instructions on that aspirin bottle really say, 'Tjfl wvg hnbtmrs vrxzey wfty pjrqbw' or is it time to get a nice pair of reading glasses?") It sarcastically ridicules my unique sense of fashion. ("You look absolutely marvelous in those wrinkled sweatpants, tattered tennis shoes and that shabby flannel shirt!")

For obvious reasons, the 40s don't have many friends. Humorist James Thurber wrote his autobiography, My Life and Hard Times, while in his thirties because "At 40, my faculties may have closed up like a flower at evening, leaving me unable to write my memoirs with a fitting and discreet inaccuracy, or, having written them, unable to carry them to the publisher's." Thurber apparently realized that writing humorous prose in his 40s wouldn't be an easy task. I speak from personal experience when I say that it's almost impossible to be funny when you're a 44-year-old man who knows that your next physical examination and every physical examination for the rest of your life will include the dreaded lubricated latex glove and those terrifying words, "Bend over, please."

In one of his many hit songs, "It Was A Very Good Year," Frank Sinatra fondly recalls girls he knew when he was 17. ("It was a very good year for small-town girls and soft summer nights ..."), when he was 21 ("It was a very good year for city girls who lived up the stair ..."), and when he was 35 ("It was a very good year for blue-blooded girls of independent means ..."). But the song ends shortly thereafter because Ol' Blue Eyes knew that including a verse about his 40s would have a negative effect on record sales. ("When I was 48, it was a very good year. It was a very good year for watching TV and gaining some weight. I didn't look great when I was 48.")

U.S. statesman and writer Benjamin Franklin once said, "At 20 years of age, the will reigns; at 30, the wit; and at 40, the judgment." I'm not exactly sure what Ben was trying to say in that quotation, but I wouldn't be surprised if it has something to do with excess ear hair.

I wish I could end today's column on a humorous note, but I can't because that no-good bully 44 keeps reminding me about my next physical examination ("Bend over, please.").

Email Mark at mark.mayfield@attbi.com.