A lot happened in 1969. Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin became the first men to walk on the moon. A little music festival called Woodstock rocked the world. PBS Sweassa mes eta Sbtrlies ehte d, and became must see TV for kids everywhere. We had the first eye transplant, Seiko sold the first quartz watch, and the first ATM machine was put into place.

The microprocessor was invented, and the Pontiac Firebird was introduced. Richard Milhous Nixon was inaugurated, and the Palestine Liberation Organization was founded. The Miracle Mets won the World Series, and the Gamecocks won their one and only championship in football going 6- 0 in the ACC.

These were all incredibly significant events, but the biggest event in my life, even though I wouldn't know it for another 22 years, was the birth of a fiery little strawberry blonde in Roanoke Rapids, N.C. June 14, 1969. This little blonde moved to North Augusta, then Spartanburg, and eventually ended up at Clemson University. While in grad- school, she met a struggling engineering student from Columbia named Mike, and the rest is history. Two states, three cities, four dogs, three kids, multiple hermit crabs, several fish, and one guinea pig later, and my wife will turn the big 4- 0.

Unlike me, she's taking this birthday in stride. My 40th isn't until October, but I'm the one clearly in crisis mode. While I'm thinking about convertible Corvettes and Rogaine, she's just glad to be alive. "Beats the alternative," she says.

My wife's philosophy mirrors that of a man's I ran into at a local retirement community several days ago. He said, referring to his current physical state (and I'm paraphrasing), it's always better to be seen vertically, than viewed horizontally.

That's a nice way of looking at life, and I hope to be there with my wife and this gentleman some day, but for now I'm too busy worrying about the battery life in my nose- hair clippers. I'm depressed that I have to apply sunscreen like hairspray. I guess I could just wear a hat, but then I'd be admitting that my scalp requires more UV protection than my shoulders. I'd be a little less prone to a midlife crisis if my eyebrows weren't thicker than the hair on my head. What is that all about?

Women always complain that men age better than women, but I suspect women's eyes just go bad faster than men's. How else could we explain the fact that any man makes it out of the beach house in a pair of black socks?

Other than my children, my wife is the greatest thing that has ever happened to me, but I need to find a chink in her age- defying armor just to validate my own crash into the wall of this midlife crisis. I mean, I need to catch her looking for gray hair or watching an infomercial on the joys of electrolysis. I need her to research facelifts - not because she needs one - but because it would make me feel better the next time she catches me trimming my earlobes.

I don't think it's possible for me to love my wife more than I do, but I might just be able to scrounge up a tiny bit more if she would join me in my panic.