"When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple," or so begins the feisty poem that inspires the popular Red Hat Society movement. Sometimes I think that when I am old, I will be purple, or at least black and blue, punished by the endless onslaught of work, bills, errands, worries, and countless, painful seasons of "America’s Next Top Model" and spin-offs of "The Apprentice." Actually, I feel very young at heart and in spirit. I just like to bitch. I’m fortunate enough to be in good health, and with the average American’s shelf-life at 77.6 years and rising, I could be enjoying "American Idol" into my second century. Inspired by today’s pop culture values, my latest theory on aging is that you should measure your real age not by numbers, but by more true, telling signs.

Music is a great way to tell your real age. What are your musical "firsts?" The first "album" I ever bought was actually a tape. Remember those? It was Tina Turner’s "Private Dancer," and I thought she was new to the music scene. The first song I ever danced to was in my high school cafeteria, and I’m ashamed to admit that the song was "Doin’ Da Butt." I must be pretty young at heart, because I still think there’s nothing wrong if you wanna do da butt all night long. I can’t remember if my first concert was Gerald Levert or Marky Mark. If it was Gerald Levert, I’m showing my age. A longtime staple in R & B music, the Levert family enjoyed a brief comeback during my high school years with "Baby, Hold Onto Me." If my first concert was Marky Mark, I’m showing my teenage lack of taste. Secretly, at the time, I would have cut off my right big toe just to rub my hands up those sweaty washboard abs.

The first video I ever saw on MTV was for the ridiculous rap tune "Parents Just Don’t Understand" by D.J. Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince. Will Smith is now a respected actor and Hollywood force. I guess there are more than six degrees of separation between me and my adolescence. In the rare case that I care to view a music video these days, I download it. I recently watched James Blunt’s "Beautiful" video and admired its simplicity and "artsy" factor. My 31 year-old mind does not believe that anyone should be shot, hit, run over, or set ablaze during a music video, and no guitars or self-images should be shattered during production. I also recently watched Madonna’s "Hung Up" video. I can’t believe that at almost 50 years old, she can slither around a stripper’s pole like a snake around a stick. I can’t believe how good she looks, and I can’t believe she’s nearly 50. I always thought that before Madonna hit 40, she’d spontaneously combust in concert and Rosie O’Donnell and Sandra Bernhardt would lick up her remains.

Unfortunately, another good way to tell your real age is to look at your face. And I don’t mean a passing glance during your morning toilette. I mean a long, hard study, preceded immediately by a mild sedative. On one episode of "The Golden Girls," Dorothy pines to Blanche that as you grow older, when you lean over a mirror, it "looks like someone let the air out of your face." She instructs Blanche to only make love while lying on her back, "so that everything slides back and it looks like you just had a facelift." To give me that fresh-faced ingénue look, every month, I used to receive Susan Lucci’s Youthful Essence microderm abrasion cream. However, I’ve come to realize that although the product worked wonders for a few hours, nothing can really stop the march of time across anyone’s face with the possible exception of Dr. 90210. I also realize that Susan Lucci’s tight face is probably due to cuts, stitches, and injections, not regular use of her $19.95 miracle cream.

Plus, my friend Mikey convinced me that the whole Youthful Essence line is a cruel hoax, that the cream is fantastic only for Susan Lucci. His theory is that every time you smear that buttercup-colored slop on your face, it magically sucks the youth out of your face and transfers it to Miss Lucci’s mug. After I pictured her cackling like an ageless witch stealing bread crumbs from starving children, sucking the freshness from my face and expanding my pores exponentially for her personal gain, I cancelled my order. Not that I’m any the wiser. Truthfully, I cancelled my order because I now use a Bath & Body Works chocolate coffee scrub. Each Youthful Essence delivery was like a noisy little monthly reminder in my mailbox that the lines across my forehead are not "character lines." They’re more like the rings inside a tree trunk.

One more way to tell your age is to listen to your body. The other day at work, I stood up to go to the bathroom and a stifled "pop" emitted from somewhere around my hips. I practically dragged my left leg to the little boys’ room like an old gimp. I’m exaggerating, but it really did hurt, and I really did limp a little for the next hour. I hear my bones’ pops and groans more often these days. What did I ever do to make them betray me in such a socially embarrassing context? I eat well. I exercise. I drink milk, and I quit drinking alcohol over two years ago. What’s their beef? And why are they conspiring with my sometimes achy muscles to lash out at me when I need them the most?

My neck and shoulders are the biggest traitors in the biological department. They collect stress like Richard Simmons collects sequin tank tops, and they will release it begrudgingly only after I shell out $75 for a massage. My masseuse often finds knots in my shoulders that amaze her—"golf balls," she calls them. I hate golf, and I hate muscles that tie themselves into golf ball-sized knots even more. I won’t even mention the hairs sprouting out of follicles I didn’t even know I had five years ago. Soon, I’ll be shaving my toenails and eyeballs. Forget evolution. I’m joining the Christian right on the side of intelligent—if not beach-body-conscious—design. If the theory of evolution were correct, human bodies would have realized by now that we no longer live in drafty caves, that we no longer need hair on our backs or butts.

I have no problem with my soul growing old gracefully, but I’ll fight my mind and body every step of the way. I’m not asking for the fountain of youth. I’d settle for a puddle.