I’VE been blessed to have accomplished a few things in my life, but when people ask me, “What’s your number one achievement?” I always say, “That’s easy. My incredible daughter, Mayan.”

She’s the best thing that ever happened to me. Everything else is in second place.

And believe me, I’m glad I became a father in my thirties, because when you’re over fifty, having a kid will age you rapidly.

That’s the last thing you need—something that makes you older faster.

If you’re over fifty and you get into a serious relationship with a younger woman, the question of having kids will come up. It’s inevitable. And you won’t like it. One night you’ll be in bed minding your own business, watching TV or sorting through your golf tees, and your girlfriend, wearing something slinky and sexy, will cuddle up next to you and very casually start having “the conversation.” It usually begins with her gently touching her finger to your lip or nibbling on your ear, and then she’ll say something like, “I was just thinking about how wonderful you are and how lucky I am. . . .”

Uh-oh.

Get ready.

Here it comes.

Pretty soon you’ll hear something like, “I was wondering . . .” and then you’ll zone out. Most of what she says after that will buzz right by you, but a few key phrases will stick, like, “My biological clock is ticking,” and, “Such gorgeous kids together,” and, “I’ll do all the heavy lifting,” and the absolute worst, “You’ll make an amazing daddy.”

While she’s making her pitch, you’ll be having a conversation with yourself. You’ll be thinking, “Do I want a kid after fifty?” and phrases will start flying around in your head, like, “Having a heart attack playing catch,” “Say good-bye to nooners,” “A half a million bucks for private school, cash, before taxes, cash,” and, the killer, “I’ll be seventy-five when the kid graduates college; I hope I recognize her.”

I knew a guy in his fifties, Marco, whose twenty-something wife, Terri, snuggled up to him one night and started having the “the kid conversation.” Marco already had grown kids. Terri purred and cooed and nibbled and Marco felt his pulse race, but not because of the purring and cooing and nibbling. He was starting to freak out about having another kid.

“Listen, I love you,” Marco said to Terri. “I want to be with you, but I’ve already had kids. I really don’t want to have a baby.”

“You won’t have to do anything except get me pregnant,” Terri said. “That’s it. That’s all I ask. Get me pregnant and you’re done.”

That didn’t sound so bad to Marco.

“That’s it?” Marco said. “Hit it and run?”

“That’s it,” Terri said.

“Well, I’d be willing to do a bare minimum. You know, like make a cameo appearance in a movie.”

“Okay, how’s this? I want to be completely honest and realistic. What if I set a limit for how much time you have to spend with her and I absolutely stick to it? How about you agree to be with her for two hours a day?”

Marco mulled this over. “Two hours a day? And I’m done?”

“I promise. After two hours, you hand the baby over to me, and you’re done until the next day.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that,” Marco said.

And he did.

His daughter is four years old now.

“I spend two hours a day with her and then my daughter and Terri know that Daddy’s tired,” Marco told me. “I come home. I roll around with the kid. We spend a quality couple of hours and then I hand her over to Terri.”

This arrangement sounded crazy to me. I didn’t get it. It sounded both too radical and too good to be true, at least for someone over fifty who didn’t want another kid.

“Run this by me one more time,” I said to Marco. “You just hand the kid over? How does that work?”

“Easy. I say, ‘Here, Ter, take her.’ Most of the time I stick around, but sometimes, if I want some peace and quiet, I go to the condo.”

“I thought you got rid of the condo when you got married. You said it was too small.”

“No. I kept the condo. It’s way too small for me, Terri, and the baby. But it’s perfect for me alone.”

I’ve heard of separate bedrooms, or a man cave in the basement or out in the garage, but Marco arranged to have separate houses. Or in his case, a house and a condo.

“This is kind of like Mad Men,” I said. “You got the big house in the suburbs and the apartment in the city.”

“Yeah. A crash pad.”

“I have to admit,” I said, “it sounds pretty good.”

“Oh, no,” Marco said. “It’s great.”

This would never work for me. I couldn’t have two totally separate places to live. And I could never have a kid at my age. I’m too old, too vain, too set in my ways, and did I mention too old? I don’t want my kid to look at me and say, “Grandpa.” Kids can see the difference between young and old. They can pick out an old person. You’re right in front of him. Normally a kid’s field of vision fills up with young faces—his friends, his parents, his teachers, his friends’ parents. My kid would see all that and one old, wrinkled face. Mine.

No.

I don’t want that.

And I don’t want his friends to say, “I really enjoyed playing with Grandpa George. He’s cool, for an old person. He played with us for almost five minutes before he started breathing heavy and holding his side.”

No. I’m not gonna do that.

I’ve done the math. If I have a kid when I’m fifty-three, by the time the kid graduates high school, I’ll be seventy-one.

Seventy-one?

I can’t make that guarantee. I may not live that long.

You know when somebody says, “Hey, it has a lifetime guarantee”? That doesn’t mean anything anymore. It used to be a big deal. If you bought a coffeemaker and it came with a lifetime guarantee and then it broke, you could take it back and the store would give you a new one.

I can’t offer my kid anything close to that. For all I know, my lifetime guarantee means four months.

And when you have a kid, time speeds up. You age faster.

One day I was having a drink with some guys after a round of golf, and this one guy pulled out a picture of his family—him, his wife, and his two little kids. The guy was beaming, happy as hell. He couldn’t wait to show us this picture.

Here’s what I saw:

Two cute little kids, an attractive young woman in her late twenties or early thirties, and this decrepit old dude who looked like the picture of Dorian Gray. His skin was pasty and wrinkled, his hair was thin and sparse and looked glued to his bald head, and his earlobes hung down to his shoulders. They looked like mud flaps. He seemed so out of place with this vibrant, young family. He didn’t fit.

The picture gave me the creeps.

I don’t want people taking that picture of me. And if I did have that picture in my wallet because my wife forced me to carry it around, I sure as hell wouldn’t show it to anybody. Or I’d Photoshop George Clooney’s head over mine.

I can’t see myself doing even the most basic things, like getting the kid dressed. I throw my back out putting on my own socks. I pull a muscle sleeping. What’s gonna happen when I try to pull on the kid’s pants or tie his shoes or get him into a shirt? I’ll be at the chiropractor for weeks.

And then to get the kid to do anything, you gotta raise your voice sometimes. You know there’s gonna be yelling and push back. Then the kid will cry and you’ll have to yell louder. Hey, I’m already old. Sounds bother me. Recently, I went to see the band Rush in concert at the Nokia Theatre in L.A. The guys are friends of mine, so I hung out with them in their dressing room before the show. As they were about to go on, Alex Lifeson said to me, “Hey, man, you want earplugs?” I laughed and said, “Really? Do I look that old? No, thank you.” So, I listened to them play bareback, sans earplugs. My ears rang for a week. It felt like somebody whacked me on the head with a crowbar. I learned some valuable advice that night:

If it’s too loud, you’re too old.

So, clearly, I’ve become sensitive to certain sounds.

Like a kid crying. I can see myself out at the park or at a game and people start to yell at me because I’m yelling at the kid and the kid’s crying, and then somebody says, “Hey, can you shut that kid up?” I hate when a dog barks next door. How will I deal with a kid crying nonstop in my own house?

Having a kid will make you older instantly. It will not be a slow build. It will happen, bam, just like that, like a bullet to the head. You’d better psych yourself up, because as soon as the kid’s old enough to walk and move on his own, you’re gonna be dragging your ass to all these stupid kid places. These are places designed for kids and parents who are much younger than you and in much better shape. I’m talking about places such as Gymboree, and Karate Kids, and those insane birthday parties at Chuck E. Cheese’s. That place is a nightmare. My head is pounding just thinking about all those screaming kids in there. And without a doubt, you’ll be the oldest person in there. People will come up to you and say, “Excuse me, are you the owner?”

Now, take a moment and think about the parents of these kids. Yes. Your kid’s friends’ parents. Again, do the math. Let’s say you’re fifty-eight and you have a five-year-old kid. Look around Chuck E. Cheese and check out the parents. They’re all twenty-seven. You know how old you are? You could be their parents. Some dude is dragging his kid around Chuck E. Cheese’s and you could be his father. But, no, you have to worry about his kid shoving your kid’s face into a pizza. It’s wrong and it’s a complete pain in the ass.

To me, this whole having a kid after you turn fifty is like a wrestling match.

You’re in the ring with your opponent. You’re grabbing, you’re grappling, and you quickly start to lose your leverage. Your opponent squirms out of your grasp, gains the advantage, and gets into position above you. That’s it. You’re done. The end. Because once you lose your leverage, you are at the mercy of the person who’s on top. And you know what’s on top?

Age.

All I can hear is that big clock ticking.

Tick, tick, tick.

Every day is another tick.

The clock is running out, dude.

You can do your best. You can chase after your kid in the park until your breath gives out and you’re sucking wind and your side starts to stab with pain and feels as if it’s about to split open. You can scream at your kid to stop shoving pencils up his nose until all you hear is the sound of your own voice screaming and you think your head is going to explode. You can try to deal with all the best intentions but you can’t avoid this—

Tick, tick, tick.

Yes, when you have a kid after fifty, life is a wrestling match.

And you’re about to get pinned.