As Facebook keeps reminding me that more of my age mates are joining me on what people like to call the fifth floor, my thoughts turn to my hopes of growing old disgracefully.
Ever since I first heard the phrase when I guess I was about 12 years old, it has fascinated me.
Looking back I get the feeling that it wasn't meant to be something to aspire to, frankly that never really mattered to me.
To my mind at the time the idea sounded bohemian, somewhat sophisticated and rather romantic.
I remember thinking of a friend's grandfather, who had somewhat scandalised his family by spending his 70s carousing and speeding around Nairobi in a powerful little red car.
They all thought he should retire to his farm and spend time bouncing his grandchildren on his knee, but he didn't have the time for that boredom.
He was busy living, loving and enjoying his fortune and doing all the things he'd probably always done or wanted to do.
He wasn’t hurting anyone except the egos of the uptight members of his family and so really I honestly couldn't see what all the fuss was about.
Actually if I am going to go there, I might as well go all the way. I recall my own great grandfather and the furore he caused by wanting to remarry at 80 or thereabouts.
The old man had been widowed some years before and was probably aching for companionship.
His children and grandchildren were busy with their lives and he was fed up with sitting around idly waiting to die.
I recall the family uproar at his announcement that he was remarrying.
I was too young to be certain whether they were more shocked by his plans to get hitched or that the woman he had his eye on was young enough to be his granddaughter.
Most likely it was a combination of both as well as squirming at the thought that the old man may have had latent libidinous feelings that he wanted to express.
Unfortunately before we could find out what he had planned to do next, the bell rang and his time on this earth was finished.
I always wanted to know what happened to the potential bride to be, but by the time I got around to asking, it was no longer relevant to those I asked.
Of course at 50-whatever I probably shouldn't be worried about gerontophobia, at least I don't think so.
That said, I wouldn’t be surprised to have set a few eyes rolling with my plans to imitate my friend’s grandad or even my own great grandfather if time allows me to last that long.
I heard or read somewhere that if you want to win the lottery or even the Kenya Charity Sweepstake, you need to buy a ticket.
Likewise if I am to accomplish my mission to grow old gracefully I had better start preparing myself for the notoriety and infamy that will doubtless come with it.
Already most young people are far too judgemental about wrinklies hanging out in the pubs and clubs and making a spectacle of themselves. I should know because I was one of those young people myself not too long ago.
I remember feeling embarrassed for this girl at school whose mother used to insist on going to the Simba Saloon to dance when her teenage children were there.
Fortunately I have no children of my own but I may have to start a desensitisation programme for my nieces and nephews just so they don’t think it's a big deal.
Meanwhile I had better make some big money soon so that when the time comes I will be in a position financially, to splurge on the requisite fire engine red sports car, lashings of champagne and maybe even a toyboy or two.
Now please excuse me while I go in search of those skinny jeans and tight-fitting T-shirts I stashed away in the cupboard somewhere.
