"Happy Birthday To You!" we sang to Bob, trying desperately to get him to stop crying and come out of the bathroom.

"Honey," I yelled over the running eater from the sink, "please come out. Everybody's got presents."

I heard him turn on the shower, but we could still hear him sobbing.

Two days later, I awoke at 3a.m. I found Bob watching TV in the living room.

"What are you watching?"

"The Yiddish Home Shopping Network."

He phoned in his order. "I'd like your Mid-Life Multi-Pak, which includes: two bottles of 'Oy Vay! I've Turned Gray!', one tube of Lipisome Facial Schmeer, one box of 'Borscht Flavor Metamucil' and one 'With Your Cholesterol, You Should Own Stock In Hebrew National' testing kit.

"You seem to be having an age thing," I said gently.

The following morning, I traced a foul smell to the kitchen. Bob's hair was standing straight up in green spikes.

It's ginseng shampoo," he said. "It's called Yucko." Which is pretty much how I would describe his hair (and the smell, while we're at it).

"I understand that just last week the American Noodles-for-Brains Association published a study that ginseng not only improves memory, but can bring people back from the dead." I said. He ignored me.

Later, Bob asked me to join him on the couch because he had something important to say.

"There's a dream I've had since high school," he said.

"Wonderful! What is it? Learning to play piano?"

He put his hand in a "stop" position and shook his head, slowly, from side to side.

"Oh no, Bob! Not the mime thing again!"

He excitedly nodded. I stood up, exasperated.

He shrugged his shoulders in an exaggerated way, tilted his head, and made his mouth into an oversized frown. Then he stood up, pantomimed a flourishing long drawn-out bow and left the room as if he was walking down stairs.

Yesterday, in frustration, I phoned my friend and colleague, Melissa.

"You won't believe this," I said.

"Not the mime thing again," she said compassionately.

I looked toward the doorway and saw Bob pirouetting by.

"Plus, he's become an obsessive-compulsive mime. Twenty times a day, he pretends to wash his hands!"

She gave me an encouraging thought, which did'nt sink in until later.

The second I hung up the phone, it rang.

"Hello?" I said, but there was no answer. God, I really hate this. "Bob," I called out. "It's for you."

After that, I stopped talking to him. Not that it really matters with a mime.

Later in the day, there was a resolution to Bob's (or more accurately, my) problem. I came back from buying moon pies and was just about to open the front door when I heard giggling inside. I peeked in the window and learned my lesson. There on the floor, sitting on spread out newspapers, was Bob and our 7-year-old nephew, Benjamin, with hair so blonde (like Bob's) you'd never know he came from my side of the family.

The resemblance was enhanced by the fact that they both had white painted faces with big black tear drops. Quite incongruous with their untamed laughter. I saw that Bob had turned an important corner, and had grown far removed from his birthday sadness. It was then that Melissa's words sank in.

"If you're lucky enough to find fulfillment," she said, "age doesn't matter, even if it means becoming a mime."

I walked in and distributed the pies, only wishing (like I do in my senseless way) that time would stand still, at least for a little while.