Forty, is that you?

Once upon a time, at a mall not too far away, I spied a man rocking a bushy ‘stache, a healthy set of sideburns, and a lush beard. As I am in the business-slash-hobby of walking around, looking around, this cool cat was exactly the kind of character I love to color my days with.

I looked at the decidedly loud configuration of his facial hair and wondered if he was getting his desired reaction: grown men staring intently at his face. He smiled, and as I nodded, a sentence formed and prepared to escape from my lips: “Good to see The Grateful Dead alive and well after 20 years.”

As the words “20 years” formed in my brain, my intention was to make a reference to the ‘70s. “Twenty years ago” would actually be 1990, and this realization floored me. My witticism froze up and I stood there bewildered — not so much at my awful math, but at the idea that I was subconsciously walking around in the ‘90s.

I am 20 years ago.In the age of the automatic rifle, I am a musketeer making fun of The Guy With The Spear.

This was not a good sign for me and my “current and relevant” self-image.

There were other signs — signs that have always been there, hovering but ignored and ineffectively brushed away like years of lint on my only suit — signs that indicated my time may be passing right before my eyes. Signs that I may not exactly be “hip” anymore.

First of all, I do not think anyone has been “hip” since 1986.

Sign No. 1: I might be an old codger because they do not use my vocabulary anymore. At a restaurant, my companion asked the waiter for the chit. He gave us a blank stare, and we blank-stared him right back. “The chit, you idiot!” My companion and I exchanged chuckles. What kind of waiter doesn’t know what a “chit” is? The kind born in 1992.

He doesn’t know chit from chinola. You can’t invite him to a shindig because he “parties.” He can’t appreciate your new yoyo because he wears a watch. He doesn’t go for “spins” in his “wheels” because he drives a car. His bagong toga is not a Saucony. And when you tell him you are reducing, he does not understand that you are on a diet.

Sign No. 2: I know I am all rocked out when my music has been moved from the pop section to the standards... if they still sell it at all. I was rocking to the music of the Stone Temple Pilots in my room when a cousin — a member of that next generation that I still had illusions of being part of — walked in and said, “Uyyy, classics! Do you have More Than Words? Tita Menchu was singing it on the Magic Sing the other night, it’s pretty good pala ha…”

I sat there and realized I was a frequent patron of Ovation Productions.

If the songs on my iPod are the same as the songs on the karaoke machine — and somebody’s tita is singing it — maybe it’s time I stopped updating my Friendster account and accepted Tita Menchu’s Facebook invite.

Sign No. 3: I am probably approaching the age of clutch bags and mahjong quorums if I am defined by new or previously meaningless sets of numbers. The things that I count are a-changing. This, for instance, is sign number three.

There were times when the post-basketball-game talk revolved around the number of points I scored, and not the number of times I was able to run up and down the floor before calling (panting, praying, demanding) for a substitution.

The time when I counted the months that I was with a new girlfriend have been replaced with counting the months since I last had sex, and the months before my next medical exam. Also, counting past girlfriends has become much easier than counting the presidents I’ve lived through.

The numbers in my bank account aren’t going up. The numbers on the weighing scale are not going down. The number 11 is the number on the clock that is synonymous with officially calling it a night.

I have numbers in my head that shouldn’t mean anything, but they do: “64” — while it does not refer to my age yet — is immediately associated with a Commodore 64. The number 106 is my ideal weight in kilograms if I am to reduce risks of a seizure. Between 1,266 and 2,352 is my recommended daily intake of calories. Four is my blood plasma count in liters. One hundred forty is my systolic blood pressure just before I should start panicking. Eighty-three is my diastolic.

I have also memorized an impressive set of seven- to 11-digit numbers — my physician’s office, home, mobile and alternate mobile numbers.

And the number of Ovation Productions.

Sign No. 4: It is probably time to hang out at Mary Grace if my roster of events suggests I should be out less… and earlier. A night out on the town for me used to start after dinner and end with me crawling into bed fully-dressed at 7 a.m. Nowadays, it begins in the afternoon, turns into an early dinner, and may or may not include a movie afterwards.

Since when did “I’m going out tonight” just mean “I’m eating out tonight”?

And why am I in bed with a book at 10 o’clock, with my teeth brushed and my pajamas on?

I’m not asleep till past midnight though, so I don’t feel like a total grandpa. But is it youthful exuberance that keeps me up, or just the fact that TV stations no longer go off the air at midnight nowadays?

It was one thing to realize I was attending more weddings than debuts; it is quite another to notice that the funerals are beginning to outnumber the weddings.

I make plans to hang out with 60-year-olds so that I can be the young stud in the group. In the company of these gentlemen, I am The Man With The Plan. I am the future, and I am taking the Golden An with me.

(I just realized my “Golden An” reference would be lost to most.)

Sign No. 5: The warranty has probably expired, and all the parts are breaking down, when I start to watch what I eat — and I am no athlete. This disturbing sign began when I started to eat vegetables willingly. Not because they were a side dish on a plate of beef, but because I ordered them up. By themselves. On purpose.

I now eat all sorts of foods that I used to think were disgusting, and I actually have second — third, fourth — thoughts about ordering a soda! I go on a water binge as part of my guilt trip for having one too many Mountain Dews.

Sign No. 6: When people say “mga bagets” I pause to wonder if they are still referring to me. First of all, please refer to “No one uses my vocabulary anymore” above; I am not 100 percent confident that I can run into a random person and they would know WTF “bagets” is. Secondly, when my friend refers to a colleague as bagets, it is not comforting to know that said Bagets Colleague is 32 years old, and married with two kids.

As the head of a creative department — in the long-forgotten days when I was still employed — I used to struggle with reality every time I had to leaf through résumés of applicants and saw “Dates of Birth” with an “8” in it! Who would hire anyone born in the ‘80s? Is this even possible? Are they hiring 10-year-olds now?

Help. I forgot to wind my wristwatch and I am stuck in 1994.

I find myself constantly suppressing a need to start conversations with the phrase, “I used to be cool.”

I used to have long hair. I used to wear shiny black clothes. I used to have metal accessories that didn’t have any use — like that chain that goes in the belt loop of my pants and into my pocket. It’s not chained to a wallet, because I didn’t have one. Because I was young, and young people have no money.

I do not know what day it was that I cut my hair and traded my ripped jeans for T-shirts and sweatpants with holes in them from being worn all day, but I do know that I have money now. And a wallet. I tend to still think of myself as a member of this Bagets demographic, but only because I was their age when the stars of the movie that spawned the term was still in circulation. When my poker students find out what my age is, I invariably get the staple response: “I didn’t think you were that old. I thought you were older.”

Sign No. 7: Why am I here again? When I go to the fridge at night and wonder what I am looking for, a little “Uh-oh” sounds off in my head. That is the sound of a few more brain cells disappearing. After many reckless and carefree years being “free” and “master of my own destiny” I am finally pondering the wisdom behind the pension plan that I do not have.

My answer to “what is the purpose of life” has changed over the years — slowly and quietly. As I walk around look around, my eye is now more likely to be caught by a cute little toddler than a half-naked Mutya ng Pilipinas also-ran. In my most sober moments, I must grudgingly admit that raising a child and making sure that little fracker is happy has become a dream that tastes sweeter than a red Ferrari.

I now have poisonous thoughts like: “Maybe I need to act more responsible and mature.”

Sign No. 8: I collect things at the tip of my tongue. Ah, if I had a peso for every time somebody asked me something and I knew the answer, but it was at the tip of my tongue... and I couldn’t recall it. That would be a great pension plan in itself.

I have more information stored at the tip of my tongue than you could save on the biggest flash-drive you could find. Of course, I say this not knowing if they make ‘em bigger than 1GB now. Do they?

Sign No. 9: If I am no longer racing with technology, I am probably losing the race against time.

This must be why I am consistently one of the few people I know who have a phone that is just a phone. My number has not changed since the day I got it, and even though I have recently been bullied into carrying an iPhone around, I have mainly used it to make phone calls and send text messages. Like a phone is supposed to.

It is the young whippersnapper in denial that installed Plants versus Zombies on the thing.

And now, at a mall not too far away, as this young whippersnapper prepares to launch a smart-aleck remark at The Funny Man From The ‘70s, another figure caught my attention. I lifted my right hand, palm down, and pressed it above my brow as I squinted and looked ahead at the dark silhouette steadily approaching me…

Forty? Is that you?