Everything hurts and what doesn't hurt, doesn't work.

You feel like the night before, and you haven't been anywhere.

The gleam in your eye is from the sun hitting your bifocals.

Your little black book contains only names ending in M.D.

You get winded playing chess.

Your children begin to look middle-aged.

You join a health club and don't go.

Your mind makes contracts your body cannot meet.

You know all the answers, but nobody asks you the questions.

You look forward to a dull evening.

You walk with your head held high, trying to get used to your bifocals.

Your favorite part of the newspaper is "Twenty-five Years Ago Today."

You turn out the lights for economic reasons instead of romantic ones.

You sit in a rocking chair and can't get it going.

Your knees buckle and your belt won't.

You are 17 around the neck, 42 around the waist, and 90 around the golf course.

You stop looking forward to your next birthday.

Dialing long distance tires you out.

You remember today that yesterday was your wedding anniversary.

"Happy Hour" is taking a nap.

The best part of your day is over when your alarm clock goes off.

You burn the midnight oil until after 9:00 p.m.

Your back goes out more often than you do.

You are cautioned to slow down by your doctor instead of by the police.

You have everything you had 20 years ago, only it's all a little bit lower.

You get your exercise acting as pallbearer for friends who exercise.

When you're sitting in a rocker and you can't get it started.

When tying one on means fastening your MedicAlert bracelet.

You have too much room in your house and not enough in the medicine cabinet.

You sink your teeth into a steak, and they stay there.