Apparently, Canadians may be forced to work to age 67 in order to qualify for Old Age Security cheques.

Thank you, Prime Minister Harper!

Certainly, I look forward to working to an advanced age. Like 93 or something.

The dream, of course, would be to receive that final thunderbolt - heart attack, or perhaps a stroke - while at my work station. As the paramedics arrive, I'll declare raspily: "Please, let me complete my theatre review. There's a important point about the Brechtian alienation effect I need to clarify."

Yet I worry about my ability to achieve such a ripe old age. You see, a state of premature old-manhood appears to have visited yours truly. For example:

Mental confusion at Starbucks: The other weekend, I decided to nip into Starbucks for a latté. At first, everything was going terrifically. Gave the girl the correct change. Retrieved my latté when she said, "Latté!"

Felt proud, in control, Zeus-like. However, when I tried to fit a plastic top onto my latté cup, things went awry. Top didn't seem to fit. Too small.

"Try this one," said the man behind me in the plastic-top queue.

So I did. But that one didn't work either. Flustered, I retrieved my toosmall top and tried it again.

"No," said the man patiently. "You see, you have a 'grande' cup. And that top you're trying to put on is for a 'tall' cup." He handed me the correct top again. This time it snapped on A-OK.

"Oh, thank you, thank you," I said. Nearby, a gaggle of teens sniggered. As I left, an old woman with a wrinkled apple-puppet face said, "I have that trouble with tops, too. It's all very confusing for us."

Us? Chilly around the legs: When I was a teenager, my dad often complained about mysterious indoor drafts.

"I feel a bit drafty around my legs," he'd say, sitting on his faux-leather recliner while watching Archie yell at Meathead on All in the Family.

To me, the temperature seemed perfectly fine. A bit hot, even.

Sometimes, in order to counteract the draftiness, he'd have a hot cup of tea. It seemed to do little good.

Apparently, there was some sort of mysterious weather ecosystem within our house, undetectable by anyone under the age of 50.

Now I've started to feel these same indoor drafts.

"Has someone left the door open?" I'll say.

"No, why?" says my wife. "I feel a bit drafty around my legs. Don't you feel it?"

"No," she'll say. "Because there's a draft," I'll say. "Around my legs. In the leg area."

My wife tells me to make a nice cup of tea. But you know, it doesn't seem to do any good.

Compulsive napping: In the days of my youth, I'd stay up very late. And, in the early morning, I'd charge around like a young bull, slapping people on the back and asking whether breakfast was ready.

But now that youthful energy has mysteriously evaporated. The sap has slowed, the fountain bubbles weakly, the flower has, um, gone to seed. Or something.

The only recourse is a regime of constant napping. Naps are great.

Pre-nap, the world seems a bleak place. Post-nap, however, the world is a happy place, full of fascinating people whom you slap on the back and ask whether breakfast is ready.

But napping can become an addiction. You can develop a "nap monkey on your back."

"Where were you?" says your wife. "Nowhere," you say. "You weren't napping again?" "No." "What's that on your face? Looks like a pillow imprint." "Oh no, that's just a debilitating skin condition." "You were napping, weren't you?" "OK, OK. God help me. I have a . a nap monkey on my back."

Of course, napping at work will be essential if the government is going to keep us on the job until we're 67.

I suggest the Harper government provide workplaces with napping pods (employees at the preternaturally enlightened Google company already enjoy this perk, you know).

Added bonus - if that final thunderbolt arrives while we are "in the pod," it could simply be sealed up and used as our final resting place. Convenient.

achamberlain@timescolonist.com