By the time you read this column my son, Jackson, will be a few days into his rookie year of the wild and wooly teenage world. 13 years old…do you remember your thirteenth year on earth? I remember I was going through a black clothing phase and received a black muscle shirt and black pants. The muscle shirt was necessary for the proper displaying of my bulging assortment of arm muscles which bared a striking resemblance to my arm bones.

As was the case most every year my birthday coincided with the North Dakota State Fair and I set out to rock the midway in my new duds. I believe it was around 170 degrees that day at the fair which as you know is the perfect time to wear all black. Nothing has a greater cooling effect than a black 100% cotton muscle shirt and matching pants. Other than the hallucinations it may have been the least productive fair day I had ever been associated with.

When you place your body in such a situation it has a little powwow with the brain and they agree to not allow any thoughts or movements that are not in some way associated with the attainment of a cold beverage, shade, a fan, or air conditioning. If anything other than this short list of demands was sought after it was met with instant physical and mental anguish to help refocus on the necessities.

I was cautioned about my clothing choice of the day prior to being transported to the fairgrounds but my new teenage brain was on break and missed the finer points of the conversation which described in great detail the discomfort I was about to bring upon myself and my assortment of arm muscles.

My faith in evolution is vilified on a regular basis as I observe the growth and development of my children above and beyond the development their father was able to muster. I suppose now that they are both teenagers the evolutionary progress may slow a bit as there is no reason to progress forward when you already know everything about anything.

Those of you that have been scoring at home over the years are also aware that any and all of my son’s birthdays are quickly followed up by one of my birthdays…40 of them now to be exact. I hate numbers. They claim you need one every year so they keep coming year after year after year after year. By the time you read this column I will have reached the summit and had a brief look about. As I looked about some heartless fiend will have swiped my half full glass and replaced it with a leaky half empty one.

Statistically speaking I will most likely spend the next year or so trying to find a way to stop the leak. Throwing in the towel on this battle against aging is signified by the sudden urge to wear black socks with sandals and to hike my pants up to the point where I can reach over my shoulder to retrieve the AARP card from the wallet in my back pocket.

“Hi, my name is Josh and I am 40 years old.” Don’t cry for me…I will do it myself thank you very much.