There comes a time when you have to make a choice—either continue the futile battle against the onslaught of advancing age or gracefully accept the fact that you are a mature senior citizen with still a lot to offer the world. I, of course, decided to continue the futile battle.

I don’t know if your job is like this, but mine values youth (values? – they worship it). For a while I tried to stay young around the office by simply changing my vocabulary but there was just so much mileage I could get out of saying “dude,” “you the man,” and “don’t hate the playa, hate the game.”

But I needed something more substantial in my quest for youth. Therefore, I tried an earring. I spent a long time deciding which ear to put it in, but I finally decided on the left ear. However, my lobe became infected, and my doctor demanded that I take the earring out immediately.

I then went to a tattoo parlor thinking I could get some Chinese symbols put on my shoulder. I don’t know what the symbols meant but they shouted, “youth.”

Unfortunately, I saw the needle and that shouted, “pain.” As I quickly left I told the tattoo guy, “My bad, man, but I’ve gots to biggity bust.” I’m not sure if this meant I had an emergency or I liked women with big breasts, but I think it added a little “youth” to my exit.

I then tried a new wardrobe. Well, first I got out my old, youthful wardrobe and discovered that Nehru shirts and bellbottoms still haven’t come back (or maybe they came back and left again while I was taking a nap). I then went to the mall and tried on some baggy pants. However, I kept tripping on them and couldn’t get out of the dressing room.

I still had one major youth trick up my sleeve – getting my hair dyed. And it wasn’t just a simple dye job, it was…the weave! Now when I say “weave,” a lot of you might be thinking hair extensions or Rastafarians. That’s not the look I was going for (although I’m leaving that possibility open).

The weave I’m talking about is a special dye process that leaves in some gray. The theory is that this will trick your friends and acquaintances. You look younger but because of the gray, the dye job is not noticeable.

Unfortunately, I had to go to a fancy, hip salon where they put strips of tin foil in my hair before they applied the dye. They then put me in what seemed to be the most conspicuous part of the salon where I had to sit with the tin foil still sticking out of my head for approximately 45 minutes. If they put me next to a TV set I probably could have picked up 140 stations.

I must say that after the ordeal was over, I was pretty happy with myself and my newfound youth. I went to lunch with my friend Larry and we both kept staring at me. I pretended I was playing with my spoon while really using it to look at my reflection.

Larry knew there was something different about me but couldn’t pinpoint it. The weave was working! However, Larry eventually asked if I got my hair dyed. I admitted I did and asked Larry what he thought. He told me I got cheated—they left in some gray.

I’ve finally come to my senses and realize that this quest for youth is exhausting, pointless, and demeaning. From now on I’m just going to take the mature route and lie about my age