The younger generation in our household keep telling me that I'm getting old. I admit, chasing goats and kids has started to take it's toll on me, but I thought I should have a few more years before I was labeled with that uncouth title. I'm not sure just when it was, either, that I started to think near-forty wasn't old, but in their eyes I'm ancient. And their father, who has passed that forty mark, is about decrepit. The battle of the bulge is no longer defined around here by "if" you have a roll, but rather by how many rolls you do have. The trump card is if you can still suck that roll in or not: if so, you're just fine and ahead of the game. My arms aren't saggy yet and I can still hide the double chin, so I guess I should have a few more years until I can't keep plucking those stray-gray's before I have to worry too much.