As much as I look at the men who wear suspenders and long for the security that having my pants held up like lederhosen brings, I am not ready, just yet, to make that move.

The combination of my disappearing ass and my gravity-prone gut combine to push the belt down in front and not adequately hold it up in back, and if I shrug my hips and suck in my gut I can step out of my jeans like a bloated chippendale’s dancer.

So while I look at old films of Burl Ives and Robin Williams and think, wow, how cool would it be not to have to tuck my shirt in two hundred times a day, I’m damned if I’m gonna go there just yet. It will mean having resigned myself to yet another sign of having grown old, and I still have the littlest urge to resist.