The gleam in your eye is from the sun hitting your bifocals.
You feel like the night after, and you haven't been anywhere.
Your little black book contains only names ending in M.D.
You get winded playing Chess.
Your children begin to look middle-aged.
You know all the answers but no one asks you the questions.
You look forward to a dull evening.
You turn out the light for economic rather than romantic reasons.
You sit in a rocking chair and can't get it going.
Your knees buckle and your belt won't.
Dialing long distance wears you out.
You just stand people who are intolerant.
The best part of your day is over when your alarm clock goes off.
You're still chasing women but can't remember why.
After painting the town red, you have to take a long rest before applying a second coat.
You burn the midnight oil until 9 P.M.
Your back goes out more often than you do.
A fortune teller offers to read your face.
Your pacemaker makes the garage door go up when you watch a pretty girl walk by.
The little gray-haired lady you help across the street is your wife.
You sink your teeth into a steak and they stay there.
You remember today that your anniversary was yesterday.
You have too much room in the house and not enough room in the medicine cabinet.
You get exercise acting as a pallbearer for your friends who exercise.