But it's too soon for me to panic about being dateless for the millennium celebration.
Heck, it's only December 1999. By my calculations, that means that I still have, uh, 13 months to line up a date for the Big Night.
Yeah, I'm one of those stubborn party-poopers who insist that the millennium will not begin until midnight on January 1, 2001, which may go a long way toward explaining why I am also dateless this New Year's Eve.
On the other hand, 13 months might not be an unreasonable timeline for securing a date. When it comes to dating, a guy my age needs all of the breaks he can get.
Don't ask me to disclose my age in print. Each time I try, I just stutter.
Watch: On my last birthday, I turned fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh
...fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh... See? And when next December comes along and potential dates are assessing me for next New Year's Eve, I'm going to be fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh plus one going on fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh plus two.
I'm familiar with the propaganda intended to make me feel good about aging, and I've seen those disgusting Pfizer "Let the dance begin" ads showing a happy couple enjoying their autumn years high on Viagra.
That's all a lot of hooey.
Why, just the other day I was bringing an empty Depends carton to the trash bin behind my apartment building when I spotted the winter International Male catalog on a stack of magazines left for recycling.
The catalog was filled with hotties who appeared to have been born no earlier than the year that I registered for the Selective Service. Oh, I did see one model older than me. It was a classic automobile shown behind some spunky number in a pin-striped pleated suit.
I'm speaking literally when I say that aging stinks. A Japanese researcher has discovered that men my age begin to emit a pungent body odor called nonenal. This unsaturated aldehyde, which cannot be camouflaged by traditional deodorant, makes men of certain age and older all but pariahs among the rest of the population.
I'd deal with this issue in therapy. But by mutual agreement my therapist and I stopped having sessions. My therapist is about my age, and when the two of us were in his office together, the stench was unbearable.
Still, even at the ripe old age of fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh, I have confidence that I will manage to find someone to celebrate the new millennium with -- even if I have to go to AARP mixers to find him.
When we make a New Year's toast, I hope that the glasses won't have teeth in them.