This past week has been one of those weeks in which the universe seems to be on a mission to remind me of how old I am becoming.

It all began last weekend, when a friend was inspired to make me a gift of a sweatshirt which bore the following inscription across the chest in big, bold letters: “You Might be Older Than Dirt If ...”

And then, beneath the bold letters, in script smaller but still visible to these ancient eyes, appeared the list of “ifs” whereby one is supposed to determine, I imagine, if one is, in fact, “older that dirt.” That list follows: You Might be O...