Boys will be boys.

The other day my son asked me, “Gettin’ any?”

“You mean ‘older?’ I had another birthday the other day,” I told him.

“No, Old Man. I mean are you ‘gettin’ any?’” he persisted with a wink.

I told him that I get a good six hours at night and a nap during the day.

“No. That’s not what I meant, Pops,” he replied laughing. He leaned over and whispered something in my ear. I smiled and said, “You mean sax. No, I don’t play the saxophone. I never did.”

“Stop, Dad. Think real hard. Remember when you were young?” he prodded me.

Of course, I knew what he was getting at, but darned if I was going to give him the satisfaction of a straight answer.

Besides, he was getting a little too personal for my taste.

He wouldn’t let it go.

“I’m talking about sex. They say elks do it into old age 10 or 15 times a night,” he taunted.

“Don’t remind me,” I grumbled. “I joined the Lions. The only excitement we have is serving pancakes to elevate cholesterol levels.”

He gave up at last.

Later his attempt at humor got me thinking: I must be a senior citizen.

The signs are everywhere.

I started writing a letter to Tiger Woods and I told him, when he meets a beautiful woman, who has a great smile, soulful eyes, long legs, more curves than a baseball pitcher could ever imagine and then I forgot what point I was making and threw the letter away.

I’m the life of the party …  even if it lasts until 8 p.m.

I’m very good at opening childproof caps …. with a  hammer.

I get excited when I get mail even if it is addressed to “Current Resident.”

I read Playboy magazine.

I’m smiling all the time because I can’t hear a thing others are saying.

I’m sure everything I can’t find is in a safe secure place,  somewhere.

I never miss a doctor’s appointment and occasionally show up in his office even when I don’t have an appointment just to look at the magazines.

I flirt with every woman I meet and then forget her name.

I watch “Jersey Shores” on television and have bad thoughts about Snooky or heartburn. I can’t tell which.

I tried on an old pair of Speedos and when I stood in front of the mirror I fell over laughing.

Yes, I’m a senior citizen and the “s” word has taken on a whole new meaning in my life.

Today, I do more counseling than conquering. I am resigned to sharing advice with men unwise in the ways of love.

I had an opportunity last summer — the requests don’t come that often — to help a man in marital distress.

He was a rural Lyle farmer, who called me for help with a problem and I gave it to him.

A week later I hopped on my bicycle and rode over to his place to see if my advice worked.

I couldn’t believe my eyes.

I pedaled down the farm lane and over to the machine shed, where I saw the door open.

When I peeked inside, I saw my friend doing a slow and sensual striptease in front of an old green Oliver tractor.

Buttocks clenched, he performed a slow pirouette, and gently slid off first the right strap of his overalls, followed by the left. He then hunched his shoulders forward and in a classic striptease move, let his overalls fall down to his hips, revealing a torn and frayed plaid shirt. Then, grabbing both sides of his flannel shirt, he ripped it apart to reveal his T-shirt underneath. With a final flourish, he tore the T-shirt from his body, and tossed his baseball cap onto a workbench.

Having seen enough, I rushed in and said, “What the heck are you doing?”

Startled, he told me, “Jeez, you scared the bejeezers out of me.”

“Are you insane?” I demanded.

“You know, me and the Ol’ Lady been having trouble lately in the bedroom department, and you told me I should do something sexy to a tractor.’”

If you don’t get this joke, you’re a senior citizen beyond help.

n Thursday on Insight: George Will