Dear Ann Landers,
Almost everything hurts. What doesn't hurt, doesn't work anymore. It feels like the morning after the night before, and you haven't been anywhere. All the names in your little black book end in M.D. You get winded playing chess. You look forward to a dull evening. You still chase women but have forgotten why. You turn out the lights for economic not romantic reasons. Your knees buckle and your belt won't. Aftft L A ft IIIIIS You are 17 around the neck, 42 around the waist and 126 around the golf course. You sink your teeth into a steak and they stay there. You try to straighten the wrinkles in your socks and find you aren't wearing any. A little old gray-haired lady tries to help you across the street. She's your wife. -L.F. in San Antonio

Dear L.F.,
Thanks for my laugh for the day-and if I get any beefs from the Gray Panthers, I'm sending them on to you.