YOU KNOW you're getting old when:
You've forgotten your Army serial number, but you've memorized your Social Security number.
You call in sick and mean it.
You really need a nap, but begrudge the downtime.
You watch TV and ogle Dinah Shore.
It's 30 years ago this month that something you can remember happened.
You start looking into the cost-of-living figures in the Sun Belt states.
You can't tell one automobile from another, and don't care.
You don't bother to change the radio dial when Paul Harvey comes on.
Lawrence Welk becomes the moral equivalent of whoopee.
Your all-night poker game is over at midnight.
You start going home after the bars close.
You turn immediately to the obituary page.
Your bones ache when you watch Barnaby Jones trotting after a crook.
On your annual trip to New York you walk the length of 42nd Street without being molested by any gender.
Your kids write home and ask if you need money.
Paul Harvey starts making sense.
You know who was famous for "Wanna buy a duck?"
You write down the toll-free number as that old gent is trying to sell you life insurance that you can't be turned down on.
Lauren Bacall visits your office and you follow her around, whistling like a fool.
You write Paul Harvey a fan letter.
Your barber, banker, lawyer and proctologist call you "sir."
Somebody asks you how you're doing, and you feel compelled to stop and tell him, in detail.
Your 5 o'clock shadow has become 5 o'clock snow.
You remember what a curtain-stretcher is.