I was thinking about the stages of life the other day. Oh, I know that a number of social
scientists, psychologists, social workers, sociologists, and others in their profession have
examined this topic. But I was thinking more about my own stages of life, particularly as an
adult. I can look back on my life and there are at least three stages of life—based on the
observations of others who shared their thoughts with me—that somewhat define me and my
self-image.
When I was a young man in my early 20’s to mid-30’s. I was, for the most part, athletic and
moderately well-built. My hair was extremely thick and was so dark brown that it looked to be
black. I sported a mustache during that time. The first stage was the “Tom Selleck/Burt
Reynolds Stage.” Laugh if you want to but, during those years, a number of people, some not
well-known to me, would comment that I reminded them of (a) Tom Selleck or (b) Burt
Reynolds. Tom Selleck is 6’ 4” so the comparison lacked something at that point. But I could
wiggle my eyebrows the way he did on his blockbuster TV Program, “Magnum, P. I.” Even Burt
Reynolds was taller than me by an inch but either comparison made me walk just a bit taller,
even though I knew it wasn’t really true.
Time passed and the dark hair turned white, I gained some weight, and the mustache morphed
into a beard. Thus began the comparisons to Kenny Rogers. This second stage was, of course,
before Kenney Rogers lost weight and had cosmetic surgery. One visitor to church said, “You
remind me so much of Kenny Rogers.” I replied, “Oh, he’s one of my favorite singers.” She
retorted, “I didn’t say you sang like him. I said you look like him.” Oh, well. Even Kenny was
taller than me. I am 5’ 10” by the way.
Once I was at a meeting in Orlando, FL and went to dinner by myself at the Golden Corral near
International Boulevard. Apparently, the staff there sees celebrities occasionally and a male
employee came by my table and said, “Sir, I don’t want to bother you, but could I have your

autograph?” I said, “Sure, but I’m not who you think I am.” He asked, “Who do I think you are?”
(Seriously, he really did ask that question.) I said, “I don’t know but it doesn’t matter. I’m not
him.” I should have just signed Kenney Rogers’ name and he would have been thrilled. Alas, I
missed an opportunity.
Then there is my third state of life. One summer my wife and I were vacationing on the Gulf
Coast, and I was under an umbrella reading a book. I felt a pair of eyes on me and glanced up to
see what I took to be a 6-year-old boy staring at me. I greeted him with, “Well, hello there.” He
looked around to see if anyone was listening, leaned toward me and whispered, “Are you
Santa?”
I put my finger to my lips, looked around at who might be close and whispered back, “Shhhh.
Don’t tell anybody. I’m on vacation.” The kid was so excited, I swear he began to vibrate.
Hoping from one foot to another, he said, “I won’t! I promise I won’t!” “Okay,” I said. “Continue
to be a good buy and I’ll see you next Christmas.” He smiled the smile of the truly blessed and
ran as fast as he could to find, I assume, his parents. I can hear him saying, “I met the real
Santa! He’s on vacation and doesn’t need a pillow!”
He was the first of many who began to make the connection with me and Santa. After a while, I
began to be annoyed by the comparison. After all, it’s a big drop-off from Tom Selleck to Santa
Claus and my ego felt it. After hearing me grumble for several Christmas seasons, my
exasperated wife said, “Either lose some weight, shave the beard, or just accept it.” I grumbled
for a couple more seasons and finally gave in. I bought a Santa suit. This Christmas season, I
intend to ride my Harley-Davidson, in my Santa suit, and wave to the kids. Why not?
I don’t know if there’s a fourth stage of my adult life or not. If there is, I’m a bit afraid of what it
might be. The thing is, I am well-aware that I never looked like Selleck, Reynolds, or Rogers.
And, for better or worse, I have to admit that the Santa comparison comes close. I do take
solace that somewhere, there is a guy in his late 20’s or early 30’s who is still telling his friends,
“I gotta tell you, man…Santa is real! I saw him on vacation in Destin, Florida.” I just hope they
don’t lock him away.

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