I scrolled across a meme that stated: “I’m not afraid of aging — just stairs, tiny print and chairs that sit too low.”

Aging has to be about the weirdest adventure I’ve ever experienced. Roller coasters were the most upsetting, frightening and stomach tickling, but aging is coming close to that, too.

British barrister John Mortimer, also one of my favorite authors, said, “The aging process is not gradual or gentle. It rushes up, pushes you over, and runs off laughing.”

Or as a birthday card asked: “Know why old guys wear their pants up so high? You will soon.”

I’m not to the point yet in the aging process at which I sit on steps and bump my way down on my butt, but I’ve thought about it.

I used to do that as a kid when confronted with scary stairs. I’m closing in on the age when therapists recommend turning back the clock and to butt-bumping once more.

Until then, I have turned into a big fan of handrails, an annoyance that I used to ignore. Now, if there’s not a handrail, you’ll see me with my shoulder pressed to the stairwell wall all the way down. I don’t know why. I don’t have balance issues.

But I do own flat feet, a trick knee, two unreliable ankles and enough padding in the front to produce more forward momentum than necessary, especially if on the stairs and pointed in a downward direction.

As the saying goes, aging isn’t for sissies. It’s right there in the fine print.

Speaking of which, somewhere back around 1970, I started wearing glasses because I couldn’t see things clearly without them.

Now I take off my bifocals because I can’t see the fine print clearly with them.

The fine print also has to be held about three inches away from my nose.

Since I have become a card-carrying senior citizen (the card I carry being Medicare), my mailbox keeps attracting flyers for hearing aids. Listen, I hear just fine. Or as fine as I want to hear.

An old dude once said, “There’s a reason sixty and sexy sound alike — the hearing is the first to go.”

I like “hearing” that I’m sexy. If a hearing aid is going to change that, I don’t want one.

Someone else asked, “Why do retirees smile so much? Because they can’t hear a word you’re saying.”

This one disturbs me a little. It seems that all of my little friends have retired and gone out to play. I am still working a full-time job. I lamented this fact to my college roommate Brent — who is retired despite being younger than I am.

“Few, if any, really retire,” Brent philosophized (that’s what old men do, we sit around and philosophize in between solving all the world’s problems). “We just trade paid work for unpaid duties.”

That’s why I still work full time — I’m too lazy to retire. Once a guy retires, all the kids, nieces, nephews, siblings, friends and neighbors start knocking on your door. “Hey, you’re not doing anything. How about helping me with (fill in the never-ending blank)?”

“That’s right,” I’d say, if I was retired. “I didn’t do anything today, and I’m not going to do anything tomorrow because I wasn’t finished doing nothing today. I’m just going to sit right here and…” No, not here. That chair is too low. I’ll never get back up again.

Does this mean that I’m over the hill? Good. As the great philosopher Ellen DeGeneres said, “When I go hiking and I get over the hill, that means I’m past the hard part and there’s a snack in my future.”

Exactly. Of course, at our age, we also have the wisdom to skip the hiking part and go right to the snack. With great age comes great wisdom. And no one expects you to run — anywhere.

One other point in the fine print if you care to take off your bifocals and squint along with me: The great philosopher Kitty O’Neill Collins noted that “Aging seems to be the only available way to live a long life.”

Philosophize with Burt at burton.w.cole@gmail.com or the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook.