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Once the coffin splintered into several pieces, Lincoln fell into the water. His wrists were still handcuffed, and there was no way that he could swim to safety. He was still reeling from the impact of the fall, and he couldn't kick up to the surface. Lincoln was too tired to fight, and simply accepted his fate. But it was to be a fate that even he did not expect. From out of nowhere, he felt hands grab onto him, and pull him away from the river's beckoning darkness. Whatever the force was, it was pulling him up back to the surface. Lincoln was dragged back to the shore.

There I was in my mid-30s, reclined in my favorite Adirondack chair with a six-pack of Zima on ice, my favorite Blues Traveler CD in my Sony Discman, and the latest copy of Maxim discretely tucked by my side. I was fully prepared for middle age, and nothing could touch me (or so I thought). Then came marriage, kids, wrinkles, joint pain, and tater tots with murderous intent. I began to suspect that this whole “aging” thing might be more of a challenge than I understood, and I was right.

Robo calls, ads for male enhancement, and an inbox filled with impossible amounts of spam. Technology may advance, but human beings are still made of the same stuff they've always been made of. So install your anti-virus software, delete your social media accounts, and strap yourself in for a bumpy ride as the author of Fair is a Place Where They Sell Cotton Candy dissects getting older in a modern world.