"What's this?" I ask my eight-year-old son, Sam, who has presented me with a laboriously-constructed chart with a ton of squiggly lines.

"And why is my name at the top?"

It's a schedule, he explains, to monitor my food intake, exercise patterns and sleeping habits.

If I measure up to acceptable standards, I get a check mark.

If I don't, I get a minus sign.

"Adults are supposed to get eight to 10 hours of sleep a night," he informs me, sounding like Marcus Welby, M.D. "How much do you get?"

I stammer uncertainly: "Six?"

"Well, you need eight to 10."

He glares at me and makes a horizontal line where a check mark should go.

"If you don't follow the chart, you won't live as long and will be less healthy."

I can't fault his logic, but what brought this on?

Is it possible, I wonder, that someone tipped him off that at 58, I'm old enough to be the dad of the dads of most of his classmates?

I have, of course, known this day was coming since I embarked on my bold parenting adventure at an age when most of my peers were putting down payments on Florida condos, applying Brylcreem to their thinning comb-overs and yanking their pants up to their shoulders.

But until now, I've been like Gloria Swanson in "Sunset Boulevard," stealthily turning the clock back in my hip hop hoodie and strategically positioned do-rag, blending in with the mellow-till-it-hurts millennials.

I figured that with my youthful zest for life — and dogged refusal to accept reality — I could skate through my kids' adolescences without anyone noticing my cultural preferences run not to grunge, hip hop and Arsenio Hall but Three Dog Night, "Jaws" and John Travolta in a white leisure suit with big-ass lapels.

So what happened?

"I asked my friend Josh how old his dad is and he said he's 36," Sam informs me soberly.

"He asked 'How old is your dad?' and I said '58' ... (worried pause) ... WHY DID YOU GO TO BED SO LATE LAST NIGHT?"

Oh great, this is just like high school. Quit hassling me, man. I'm not a pawn of your sellout establishment hierarchy.

On the other hand, what do I have to do to get that check mark? Is there a prize?

"Have you eaten from all four food groups today?" Sam quizzes sternly. "Did you take four 15-minute walks totalling one hour? If you go to bed by 11:30 or earlier, I'll give you a nickel."

It's this last category that sinks me, the result of bad habits developed in my student newspaper days when I would hang out until 4 a.m. eating cold pizza, chewing the fat about obscure British bands and playing hide and seek in the cavernous halls of the Western University student centre.

"Age is just a number," I reassure him, secretly thinking, "Yikes, 58? That explains why I have no hair."

"Really, it's an abstraction. A label. Chronological designations are a relic of the agrarian days of pre-industrial times. In all the ways that count, I'm still 32."

This is not remotely true. My back hurts. My shoulder hurts. Sometimes, I forget my own name.

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And I suspect part of the inspiration for Sam's elaborate monitoring system is my constant bellyaching about sciatica pain in my back and rotator cuff issues in my shoulders.

"I'm dying!" I can frequently be overheard telling my wife in the kitchen. "I have no energy. I can barely climb the stairs. It's over for me!"

"Well, don't tell Sam," she'll advise, aware of his ambitious desire to heal the planet. "He'll be devastated."

I get a break with my 10-year-old who — oblivious to the fact I've been relegated to the same generational caste as Kirk Douglas and Betty White — views me less as "old" than an amorphous balding lump who yells at him to eat breakfast and warbles off-key versions of "Hotel California."

But Sam — precocious rascal that he is — has always been acutely aware of aging and mortality.

When his beloved gerbil died a few months back, he was devastated, sobbing at its backyard gravesite for days.

When our aging cat developed kidney disease and her whiskers turned frosty white, he became her solemn protector, placing her gingerly at the edge of his bed every night.

And now there's decrepit old me — another burden to be contended with.

"Seriously, I'm fine," I tell him in my best simulation of the briefcase-toting dad in "Leave it to Beaver."

"I'm planning a 40-kilometre bike ride tomorrow and may even pump a few weights tonight before bed. Man, I have so much energy — I feel like I'm 22 again!"

As I flop on his bed, a writhing mass of pulled muscles and inflamed ligaments, he glares at me with suspicion and places another horizontal line on my activity chart.

"Another failing grade?" I complain, unable to move. "Listen, kid — don't worry about me. I'm good for another 20 years at least. Wait, make it 30."

As my eyes close involuntarily, he covers me gently with a blanket, tucks a stuffed bear under one arm and, making another surreptitious tick on his chart, quietly exits the bedroom.

I consider lodging a final protest, but — eager to upgrade my ranking — topple over and sleep for the next six hours instead.

Joel Rubinoff is at home, snoozing peacefully. Email him at jrubinoff@therecord.com

Twitter: @JoelRubinoff