I walked into my doctor's office.

“Doctor,” I say, trying to raise my left arm above my head. “It hurts when I go like this.”

My doctor says, “Don't go like that.”

“But, Doc, I need to raise my arm.”

“OK, but it’s gonna hurt.”

“Why?”

“Because you said it hurts when you raise it.”

“Yea, but can you tell me why?”

“Because you're getting old. Anything else hurt?”

Glad I didn't follow with the line about wanting a second opinion.

Without warning, I've become an old man and a punch line in a bad Henny Youngman joke.

One day, I'm a fit baby boomer who exercises regularly, watches what he eats and flosses daily. Next day I wake up ready for those slip-on sneakers.

When I mention the pain to Bonnie, a retired registered nurse with a heart of gold, she questions me as if she was auditioning for one of those CSI shows.

“What did you do? What did you lift? What did you pull? You must have done something.”

“I was sleeping with you,” I reminded her during the interrogation, suggesting the answers might come easier if she removed the light from my eyes.

Of course, I know what happened. I got old.

I'm not talking more gray hair old or forgetting where I put my eyeglasses until I look in the mirror and see they're on top of my head old. I’m talking the worst kind of old. Shrink’n old.

I’ve read that it’s normal to lose height with age, typically starting around age 40.

On Wednesday I turn 66 and every time I get in my car, I have to tilt the rearview mirror down a fraction of an inch.

I’ve been a half-inch shy of 6 feet for nearly half a century. When I went to get a flu shot the nurse checked my weight and height and said I was 5-foot-9. I told the nurse she has a faulty height chart. She said, “I don't make the laws of physics, I just record the casualties.”

I’m fairly certain by 75 I’ll be able to walk under a coffee table without stooping. 

Sixty-six is the age when you aren't quite ancient, but you've officially reached Level 2 of senior citizenship.

If I were a highway, I’d be famous and full of potholes. Instead, I’m just wondering why my knees make a sound like a bowl of Rice Krispies every time I stand up.

Here are a few things I’ve learned about reaching 66:

I have the long-term memory of an elephant and the short-term memory of a goldfish. I can recite our phone number in Brooklyn when I was 5 and every verse from “American Pie,” but I can’t tell you why I just walked into the kitchen.

In my 20s, 9 p.m. was when the night started. In my 40s, it was when I finished the dishes. At 66, if I’m not on the couch with a remote in my hand by 9, I start to feel like a phone with 2% battery.

The best part about 66? I’ve perfected the art of ‘Tactical Deafness.’ I can’t hear Bonnie tell me to let the dog out or the dishwasher beeping, but I can hear my grandson Evan whisper, “Twizzlers,” from three rooms away.

And now that I've shrunk to 5'9", I’m much closer to eye-level with my 1-year-old grandson Colby. It’s not a loss of height; it’s a downsizing for better relatability.

At 66, the view is actually pretty good - as long as I remember where I put my glasses.