Recently, Marge hears plaintive warbling emanating from the bathroom whenever I'm in the tub:

"And now the end is near. So I face the final curtain.... Regrets, I've had a few, but then again, too few to mention.... The record shows, I took the blows, and did it MY WAAAAY!"

Other times, it's a selection from the Jimmy Buffet songbook: "Some of its magic and some of its tragic, but it's been a good life all in all."

Why the histrionics?

I just turned 60.

This wasn't supposed to happen to a baby-boomer. We were supposed to be eternally young.

Until I hit 55, I breezed through my birthdays. But now these five-year milestone birthdays seem to be coming every year.

Let me just say for the record that I can't be 60. I'm the baby brother with three older siblings. There must be some mistake.

I certainly don't feel that much different from my 20s.

When I'm off work I still wear blue jeans, old sneakers and tavern t-shirts.

I still listen to the same rock songs on the radio. (They don't call them "Oldies" any more. They call them "The Greatest Hits." I thought Beethoven and Mozart wrote the Greatest Hits of all time, not Lennon and McCartney.)

But of course, when I deal with twenty-somethings, I realize they exist in a completely different world with their instant text messaging, cell phone cameras, etc.

Marge tried to update me by giving me an iPod for my birthday. (I guess I'll have to throw out my eight-tracks and 45s.)

Around the time of Seattle's Century 21 World Fair in 1962, I figured out I would most likely be around for the turn of the century. I calculated I would be 52. The thought was almost too much for a young boy to comprehend. I pictured myself stooped over with a cane with someone feeding me soup.

I do feel I've racked up enough life experience to be qualified to dispense my wisdom. Trouble is there are no takers. Maybe I should set up a little booth like Lucy from the Peanuts comic strip-"Sage advice: 5 cents."

One indication that I just might be becoming more curmudgeonly came as I kicked off my recent vacation. I like to get into vacation mode by playing a horrid 1980s ballad called "Escape" (also known as the Pina Colada Song.)

In it Rupert Holmes fantasizes about "making love at midnight in the dunes of the cape."

I always thought that sounded daringly romantic.

But this year, I grumbled, "Who wants to get sand in their shorts? Besides, Letterman's on at midnight."

I've certainly made concessions to age in my eating habits.

Dick Jordan, an old friend from Burien, told me that everybody has their quota of alcohol in their life. He had just used his up sooner than most. I feel the same way about desserts and carbs.

I suppose this whining about turning 60 is ridiculous.

I look at our publisher Jerry Robinson, who's a quarter century older. He's got lots more energy and enthusiasm than the rest of us young whippersnappers in our 60s. And my dad was still going strong into his 90s.

Perky Marge holds out a beacon of hope. With the kids long gone, our elderly sick cat recently gone and the mortgage about to be paid off, we can finally spread our wings and enjoy life even more, she chirps.

Marge claims the best is yet to come.

Maybe I should try to bloom instead of wilt where I've been planted.

Eric Mathison can be reached at hteditor@robinsonnews.com or 206-388-1855.