By SHILO ZYLBERGOLD

Today, as I write this column, I turn 60. As I sit here watching my fingers stumble across the keyboard, I can feel the seconds ticking away. I get up, walk over to the hall mirror and take a good look at myself.

Who is that stranger looking back at me? What’s with all the thinning hair and graying follicles? How did all those wrinkles and crow’s feet get there and why are they spreading across [this] [his] face? Are those just deep forehead creases or are they only the first signs of glacial facial erosion? Let’s face it: those worry lines are, well, in a word, worrisome.

What I’m observing firsthand is the aging process in progress. My face has become a battleground for the ultimately futile struggle against time. My body is already waving the white flag of surrender. It happens eventually to all of us, if we can manage to somehow survive this long despite all the creams, dyes and yoga positions we try, let alone surgical interventions. I’ve been told the upside for all this physical deterioration is the onset of something called “wisdom.” However, I’m still waiting for this wondrous state to descend upon me and am beginning to suspect that this phantom so-called “wisdom” lies somewhere along the elusive spectrum between the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy. So far no one has come up to me and told me how wise I’m looking these days.

Nobody asked me, but when I first picked out this body exactly 60 years ago, I couldn’t help but be smitten by its new, squeaky clean, shiny lines (baby fat notwithstanding). It had come right off the factory assembly line and was just begging to be taken out for a test ride. The sales rep, at the time, extolled the virtues of this potentially sporty model with its sleek “two-on-the-floor” design and proudly declared it came with a lifetime warranty. He told me to look beyond the roly-poly first impression and gave me a slick photo brochure as to how “it” could look in 20 years time.

I should have read the fine print.

A “lifetime” seemed like forever back then. Now I’m starting to feel I might have been ripped off. I did not foresee the “planned obsolescence” which was built right into this aging machine I call “me.” One day it’s that nagging back pain. The next day my knees are swollen to the size of truck fenders. A good day is when I can remember whether or not I’ve already taken my anti-inflammatories.

Mind you, I must admit that I have been more than a little remiss on the upkeep and maintenance of this body. As the years have slipped by, I’ve let my fitness regime slide a bit. Gone are the days of 200 sit-ups followed by a hundred push-ups. Now, a sit-up is what I have to do to get myself out of bed in the morning and a push-up is what gets me away from the dinner table. At the same time as I’ve been witnessing my hairline moving north, I’ve had to reluctantly watch my waistline heading south (low-rise jeans are now my pants of choice). I guess I’ve never been the kind of man who could walk by a cinnamon bun without getting his face sticky.

Way back in 1965, Jack Weinberg, one of the leaders of the Free Speech Movement at the University of California at Berkeley, warned us “never to trust anyone over 30.” Now that I’m turning 60 (and am doubling that milestone of suspicious malice), I’m wondering whether I can finally be trusted again. According to certain sources, I’m trustworthy to the effect that I’m almost guaranteed to leave the bathroom light on once I leave the room —or any room, for that matter — despite all the waste of electricity; I’ll almost always leave my cordless phone off the hook overnight so it loses its charge; I can be counted on to scatter reams of newspapers and letters all over the kitchen counter, table and any other horizontal surface; and I can definitely be trusted to never miss a football game or baseball score while lying on my side weeding in the garden.

Obviously, I need to come to terms with certain harsh realities. At this point in my life, I am probably never going to be skating around the rink at GM Place with Lord Stanley’s Cup hoisted high above my head. Equally out of reach now is any chance of my giving an acceptance speech at the Academy Awards ceremony. It’s unlikely I’ll be the first man to walk on Mars. It’s doubtful now that I will be the one to mathematically prove that “pi” is indeed a rational number.

I’m afraid it won’t be me who discovers the cure for cancer is something as simple as, say, a smoothie concocted from the blending of Scotch broom and thistle in slug slime. In fact, I might not even be able to figure out how to put up the blinds that we bought over five months ago.

When I turned 40, I was able to convince myself that youth and vitality were still within the realm of my possibilities.

To prove this to myself, I cycled around the island and had enough jam left in me to play a doubleheader of fastpitch ball later that evening.

The day I turned 50, I once again cycled around the island. It may have taken me a mite longer, and perhaps there was a bit more dismounting and pushing the bike up yet another hill, but I managed to will my way through it. Instead of playing the doubleheader like I did the decade before, I was forced to spend the next two days soaking in a hot tub.

As I hit 60 today, I think I am still capable of cycling around Salt Spring. The problem is I can’t remember where I last left my bike. I think I’ll just go soak in the hot tub instead.