Last week I turned 40. I’m sure you didn’t think I was that ancient. I didn’t either, until last month. That’s when I realized that my birthday was around the corner, ready to hit me over the head with the Big Freaking Round Number marking four (gulp) decades of my life.

This means I’m now entering my fifth decade, and before you know it, I’ll be demanding social security benefits, early-bird senior discounts at Denny’s, Metamucil in my oats, and a 20-year old callboy from RentBoys.com.

Feeling anxious and depressed, I considered throwing a big party to convince myself I should celebrate 40, but the more I thought about the number, the more I feared it. Isn’t 40 the end of youth for gay men, and the start of “middle age”? If most American men live to be about 80, then 40 sure sounds like the middle to me. Forty also marks the middle age range on most surveys: “25–39,” “40–59,” and “over 60.” To make things worse, doctors recommend a yearly physical and prostate exam starting at 40, and monthly exams of one’s testicles for lumps.

In other words, after 40 I’ll probably get poked and stroked by my doctor more frequently than by anyone else. My single friends who are older than 40 confirm this sad truth – they claim they get less attention from guys than they used to, and when they do, it’s often from young sugar-daddy-chasers. I’m no sugar pop myself, so I can’t see myself seriously dating someone more than 10 years my junior. I even wrote this into my profiles. But this hasn’t stopped gaggles of 20-somethings from hitting on me. Are younger guys too impatient to read profiles, or are they just more fearless than the rest of us? Probably both. Whatever their motives their attention either flatters or annoys me, depending on my mood.

My ex, who is now 43, laments that in the past few years he’s developed persistent love handles, slight hearing loss, loss of hair, and hair popping up where he doesn’t want it. I told him that his hearing problem must have happened early on, because when we were together he never seemed to hear half of what I said. “What?” he answered, trying to be funny.

My hearing still seems to be sharp – probably because I don’t like hanging out in clubs where I have to shout over music, and I don’t have iPod headphones permanently glued to my head. My hair isn’t yet falling out in clumps – but if it does, my stylist swears by Rogaine. And because I work out regularly, I’m still strong and mostly ache-free, although I can’t bench press as much as I used to. So I don’t feel so old yet. Maybe my body will all go to hell overnight: one day I’ll suddenly wake up in great pain, half-blind, half-deaf, hair all over my pillow, slobbering and in need of adult diapers.

Because my birthday fell on a Monday, I didn’t end up throwing a big party after all. But the week before I treated myself to see Madonna – that was my present to myself. Madge just turned 50 in August, and at the concert she was just as fierce and booty-shaking as 20 years ago. I wish I could say the same for the mostly “middle-aged” crowd – many of whom looked like they would rather be lounging with a martini and TV remote than standing and waving their arms for two hours. I didn’t know all of Madonna’s latest songs either, but I danced anyway. Pretending to know the songs at least made me feel younger, and Madge became my new middle-age inspiration. You go, girl!

Luckily, I can still easily pass for thirty-something, thanks to my dedication to healthy eating, exercising, not drinking too much and trying to stay stress-free. So for now, I’m not planning to update my age in my profiles, as long as I can pass for 34 or 35. And maybe I’ll even keep checking the “25-39” age group on surveys. Call me in denial if you want; just don’t call me “middle-aged.”