I don't drink. Well, I drink for the sake of sustenance, but not to get drunk. Not even to get buzzed. I'm not sure about the stereotype about Jews not being able to hold their alcohol. I used to pack it away with any Scottish, Irish or Germanic drinking companion. I still know brethren who can. But I can't. Moreover, I can't. Doctor's orders.

Nonetheless, I was sobered up pretty harshly this morning. We were watching Season 4 of The Waltons (don't laugh, it's quite a wholesome show) and there was an episode about the family's hard-working father, John Sr., confronting the reality of age. His 25th high school reunion was upon him and he was using the marking point to evaluate his life.

Then it hit me: Twenty five years since high school? That's me. I'm in the same rocky boat as John Walton. I'm the same age as he is on the show. Heck, I'm older, at 42, than he was portrayed as being in the first three inspiring seasons (the show starting jumping the shark a little in Season 4).

Break out the smelling salts. Pick me up off the floor.

This was the guy I rated No. 1 on my all-time list of television fathers - ahead of the luminous likes of Mike Brady and James Evans - as if he was some old, wise sage. Turns out, he is a contemporary.

Ouch.

Is 40 really the new 30, like they say, or am I just a 42-year-old who still thinks he is 16? Do I need to grow up or did men from past generations need to grow down?

Help me out here.