As my generation slips into (gulp) middle age, we have finally come face to face with our own mortality.
Often, it happens this way: One day you look into the mirror and see something that looks way too much like David Crosby staring back at you.
It's the paunch. And the gray. And the easy-fit, fat-boy, Clinton-sized jeans.
This is how you know you've had it. You drink lite beer. You drink diet soda. You haven't had a steak since Elvis died. There are actually days when you -- a man's man, after all -- will eat only a salad for lunch.
This is how bad it can get. You know your cholesterol count better than you do your children's birthdays. You've got a home blood-pressure testing kit. And you can be reduced to tears if somebody even mentions the prostate gland.
You've got a stationary bike you don't use, next to the NordicTrack you don't use, hard by the rowing machine you don't use. The scary part is, there are times when this makes you feel guilty.
In the car -- a sensible car, maybe a station wagon or a van -- you sometimes listen to talk radio. And at inappropriate moments, say like during "Monday Night Football," you find yourself wondering whether the Social Security system is properly funded.
At parties, men your age discuss lawn care. And you leave to go home around 11. After just one drink.
Pretty grim picture, huh? So, why am I smiling? Why is every middle-aged guy you see smiling?
That's easy. The reason is George Foreman. He says it's OK to have a paunch. It's OK to be 45.
It's more than OK because Foreman, 45 if he's a day, is heavyweight champion of the world, knocking out a guy who's half his age.
Smiling?
It's like a call from the governor. It's a reprieve. It's this: You didn't really get old after all.
It was a close call, too.
Mine was a generation about to lose its romance with youthfulness. It was just getting too darn hard to keep up. I mean, after watching MTV for 15 minutes, I start to feel like Alistair Cooke.
We were slipping. I admit it. It had become all oldies stations for us.
We thought Green Day had something to do with leprechauns.
I was at lunch last week with my so-called hip friends -- people who knew who Stu Sutcliffe was before the movie -- and I brought up the fact that Michael Stipe had compared the Beatles' work to elevator music.
I thought this would get a laugh. Or maybe get somebody upset. Instead, it got only blank stares.
Nobody at the table had ever heard of Michael Stipe. (I'm not telling you who he is. Ask your kids.)
This caused me some real pain. We actually had turned into our parents, hadn't we?
And then came George.
Fat-and-40 George is a poster boy for our generation. His message: Growing up doesn't have to be the same thing as growing old.
The cool thing about Foreman is that he's not just some brain-damaged fighter. This is a guy who you'd like to have over to the house.
Actually, you'd like to go out and have cheeseburgers for lunch. He eats cheeseburgers. He loves cheeseburgers. He kids that his entire life is a buffet line.
He's fun. This is how fun George Foreman is: He named all his sons George. Grown up? The man is 45, and he goes to work in short pants.
You've seen him on the commercials. You've seen him on the late-night talk shows. He refuses to take life seriously. He's one of us.
He's OK, we're OK.
Foreman isn't like those fit-for-life, 40-plus marathoners. Don't those guys get on your nerves? The winners -- heck, even the losers -- always say something like, "I'm running 26 miles while you're watching 'Viper,' lard-butt."
First of all, there's nothing wrong with "Viper." Secondly, marathoners are people who take briefcases on vacation with them. They were always old.
Foreman has a more relaxed attitude about exercise. He'll do it, but only if he's got a $10 million fight to prepare for. Which is exactly my philosophy. The first day somebody offers me that kind of money to get in shape, I'm back on the exercise bike. The second day, well, we'll have to talk.