It’s been a while since I have given you an update on my steady progression into becoming a crotchety old man.

To bring you up to speed, my retirement goal has always been to sit in a rocking chair on my front porch, shotgun laying across my lap. I would spend my time complaining about “kids these days” and yelling at people to get off my lawn.

Having so lofty a goal has taken a lot of effort. I started out as a surly youngster, preferring the comfort of the indoors to the wide-open spaces and sunshine the out of doors provide. A good start, to be sure, but there was still more to be done.

Morphing into a sullen teenager was such a thread worn trope that it bordered on the cliché. Yet I stuck with it, eschewing fashion fads in favor of clothing that not only didn’t breathe, it suffocated. The resulting sweaty armpits made me hyper self-conscious, which helped a lot in avoiding human contact.

In my 20s I tried out being disillusioned. With Baby Boomers making their way (in a VW microbus, no doubt) into all facets of government, it was a simple task to feel bleak about the direction our country was heading.

Side note: when I hear John Mayer warbling about waiting for the world to change I guffaw, thinking about the counterculture and Timothy Leary, who told everyone to “turn on, tune in, drop out” in 1966. Guess what, John. The folks that pledged to speak truth to power suddenly got laryngitis when they became the ones in control. Food for thought-I suggest eating crow.

Such depressing realizations made the transition to being cranky in my 30s as easy as sliding on a comfortable pair of slippers. Being expected to throw off the trappings of youth in order to adopt a veneer of maturity was a strong motivator and kept me in a foul mood most of the time.

The purgatory of being not young though not old, otherwise referred to as your 40s, would make even the most moon-eyed dreamer cantankerous. My plan was coming to fruition.

My 50s have been spent honing my skill at being curmudgeonly. I find that grunting a lot and making odd noises as I get in and out of chairs helps sell the mood. Of course, working with youngsters who make it a point to remind me of my impending decrepitude each and every day helps me stay focused. My eye is on the prize.

What will I do once I achieve crotchitude? Given the average male life span is 72, that leaves me my 60s and a couple of years in the 70s to enjoy the fruits of my labor, and savior the bilious feeling of being crotchety. This will dovetail perfectly with my love of outdated phrases and long silences.

Should you decide to follow a lifestyle of being irascible, tetchy and ornery, just keep in mind that how you carry yourself is everything. Sure, it takes six less muscles to smile than frown. When you see those grinning slackers, snort in derision, taking comfort in the knowledge that you are exercising your face with each glower.