I am another year older.

Actually, that's a pretty easy statement to make. At any given time I am a year older than I was the previous year. But it's usually on my birthday that I really notice.

And it's on my birthday that usually I slip into a pretty melancholy mood.

I don't mind too much that my looks are continuing their downward spiral. I have never been an attractive guy, so it's not hard for me to see my hair thinning and my belly growing.

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My girth is simply additional insulation for the love furnace. It's a safety issue. And bald guys are cool. Stone Cold Steve Austin and Minnesota Gov. Jesse Ventura are my heroes.

Mostly, I'm upset about the things I haven't done. In my high school yearbook, under "future plans" it says: "President of Cuba."

Granted, Castro's still alive, so I've got some time. But there are a number of reasons that my plan won't come to fruition.

I should have already built up an insurrection force. Sure, I can always find someone who's willing to go out for a few beers, but when talk turns to overthrowing governments, they get skittish. And WSBTV may appear glamorous, but the pay just isn't enough to fund a band of mercenaries.

Also, my Spanish isn't that good.

Primarily though, such an undertaking would require a tremendous amount of doing on my part. I'm not much of a doer.

Recently Quiz Meister Scott Wilson offered me this quote from a television show: "Sometimes you've just got to lie in the grass and think about what you've still got to do."

Personally, if I'm lying in the grass I don't need to think about what I've got to do -- I'm doing it.

As I get older, though, I can't help but feel that I should be doing more. I'm not sure what I should be doing, but I should be doing a lot of it. Then I get worried that perhaps I am getting too old to do some of it, whatever it is. I work myself into a panicked frenzy, fearing that the sands of my existence are fast slipping away and I'll just spend the rest of my life thinking about what I should have done.

But it's not as if I am so old that I've forgotten it's OK to turn right on a red light. Indeed, part of my foul mood stems from the fact that I am young enough to remember doing things, but they were irresponsible things. A few years ago, if I were to call my dad from Spain and plead for money, it would have been considered "youthful" and somehow fun. But now it would only earn me a long talking-to from Dr. Phil.

Of course, age also plays tricks on one's memory. What was actually an eight-hour wait in a La Havre train station with nothing to read but that crappy international version of USA Today somehow transforms itself into a life-affirming trek through French wine country, on which I met -- and carried on a wild love affair with -- a girl named Marie who could only say one thing in English: "Do you want me to take this off?"

So the things I've done may not be nearly as exciting as the things I think I've done. Which is good news, because that means the things I am doing now will probably become more exciting a few years down the road.

Perhaps, then, I'll just stick to what I'm doing.

So, if you should happen across a guy who is drinking beer, lying in the grass and listening to Pérez Prado CDs ... please, call me El Presidente.

Chris Cope is married, with no children. His column appears every other Tuesday.