Assuming that everything goes according to schedule, by the time you read this I will have just celebrated one of those “landmark” birthdays that come around every few years. I won’t mention the specific number, but here’s a hint: it starts with a six and ends with a 15 percent senior discount at your neighborhood Denny’s.

Not that I’m complaining, you understand, although as an elderly friend of mine once put it, “If I had known I was going to live this long I’d have taken a lot better care of myself.”

Come to think of it, when this “elderly” fellow spoke that line so many years ago, he was in all probability about the same age I am now! I hate to break it to you kids, but that’s how this thing shakes out.

Just to be clear, I have no problem with the general notion of taking better care of myself, nor do I reject out of hand the prospect of living longer and/or enjoying a better quality of life while I’m at it. The real stumbling block for me is that I’ve never been able to muster up much enthusiasm for the notion of an all-out pitched battle against age when it’s obvious that the outcome has already been decided (and not in my favor) from the very first skirmish!

As far as I can tell, aging amounts to nothing more or less than a natural biological process about which nothing much can be done anyway. Given the fact that aging is completely inevitable, it would be incredibly ironic if I were to waste so much as a nanosecond of my own allotted three score and ten years in some vain misguided attempt to stave it off. But hey, that’s just me.

I am well aware that not everyone is as sanguine as I am when it comes to this aging business (by the way, make no mistake, it is a business and business is booming). Entrenched age denial in all its various and sundry forms has developed into a hugely profitable global industry. Truth be told, this is hardly a new phenomenon. The production and marketing of myriad anti-aging lotions and potions was a well-established “cash cow” long before anybody ever thought up Botox injections.

Trust me on this. There will always be somebody out there more than happy to relieve you of your hard earned cash in exchange for the secret GPS coordinates for the Fountain of Youth. Speaking of which, do you really think that whoever originally bankrolled Ponce de Leon’s famous expedition to the New World back in 1513 shelled out all that cash on the off chance that the explorer would return from his first trip to Florida with a recommendation for a good plastic surgeon?

Rampant age denial has also spawned some seriously spooky sub-cultures. I’ve personally known a surprising number of otherwise attractive, sane, rational and intelligent women who, upon reaching the “Big Four-O!” suddenly morphed into hell-for-leather “health nuts.” Although, in the extreme cases I’ve witnessed, I’m not sure whether health actually had much of anything to do with it.

We’re not talking about a normal level of fitness here, people. One thing all these women do seem to have in common is that they’ve embarked upon some sort of mystical vision quest, which will only be fulfilled when they’ve successfully jogged, biked, hot-yoga-ed, and skied themselves into a physical state resembling nothing so much a 93-pound slab of Lycra clad beef jerky.

Me: “Hey honey, isn’t that your friend Greneldahyde sitting in the lounge?”

Mrs. S: “Um, I think maybe it is. Let’s go say hi.”

Me: “Oh, excuse me Keith. Sorry to interrupt. We thought you were someone else. Are The Stones in town for a concert?

Then again, I suppose it’s entirely possible that I’m overthinking the whole thing. Could it be that age denial is simply a culturally embedded “women’s issue” stemming from the wildly unrealistic and distorted image of feminine “beauty” promulgated by an unholy alliance between Hollywood and the cosmetic industry?

That’s a distinct possibility, especially since, as a female friend once explained, “It’s just not fair. When men get older they start to look like Clint Eastwood and when women get older ... we start looking like Clint Eastwood!”

So while everyone deals with aging in his or her own way, I’m confident that my approach will put me “on the “right side of history.” Let’s face it: Accounts differ as to whether or not he actually discovered the “Fountain of Youth,” but it’s a historical fact that by the time Ponce de Leon was my age, he’d been dead for two years!