It seems a bit silly now, upon retrospect, but I came up with this cunning little strategy to combat aging. Not a full-blown master plan, mind you, but more of a casual hypothesis, the sort of thing you come up with people-watching while eating a sandwich on a park bench. Probably be a bestseller once I worked out the kinks. My theory went like this: for every dismaying sign of age creeping up on me or peers in my age group, I’d simply counter it by doing the opposite. Like some kind of Benjamin Button, but instead of getting younger, I’d just hold aging in check. Let’s not get greedy here.

For instance, I noticed a troubling trend among my fellow travelers through life: a distinct slowing of the walk, like they’d all agreed to audition for a tortoise ballet. My solution? Walk like I’m late for a meeting, leaving my co-workers, most of whom are the age of my daughters, in a state of bewilderment and just a touch of awe. If the universe was determined to drag me toward slower steps, I’d counter with a brisk two-step of my own. Net effect: we’re even. Genius.

What next? Well, there was the curious phenomenon of the shrinking voice. Some of my peer age group were starting to speak like they’d been auditioning for the role of Godfather in a new sequel – soft, raspy, tentative, Yoda syntax – the works. I wasn’t having it. No sir. I summoned my high school choir teacher from the deep, cobwebbed recesses of my memory, that stalwart instructor who used to implore, “Sing from your diaphragm!” though I could never really understand where that was, but for sure I wasn’t asking that follow-up question. For now, I’d just talk louder, pick up the pace, and try to make the second half of my sentences connect with the first half. I’m batting 0.500 here, plus I never now which of my many flavors of voice will show up until I start talking. But still, fighting the good fight. Bring it on, old age. That all you got?

The pièce de résistance of my strategy—my magnum opus, if you will—was tackling the unwelcome souvenir 50s-me had passed along to 60s-me: a spare tire. My 50s me, bless his carb-loving, cheesecake hugging heart, had kindly wrapped this squishy package around my middle, complete with a note that said, “Good luck!” It was time to return the favor. With my wife’s gentle coaching and food that girl on TV who’s a little bit country sent me in styrofoam boxes filled with lots of dry ice and just a little bit of food, I got back into something resembling my 40s. Not my sprightly 30s—let’s not get carried away—but durable, capable, and less likely to countdown from three when getting up from a low chair. It took three grueling months, during which I bonded with vegetables in a way I never thought possible. But I emerged victorious, smug in the belief that I’d found the greatest secret to aging gracefully, as if I’d unlocked the cheat codes of life.

And then came Wednesday.