You hear a lot of talk about all of the angst and emotional turmoil that come along with turning 30 or 40 -- why, I even heard Larry King whine for a whole hour on CNN a few months back about what a drag it was to turn 70 -- but the most traumatic (and, sadly, overlooked) birthday of them all really has to be 35. Reaching one score and 15 years packs a wallop like no other age, and no less an authority than the Constitution of these here United States tells us that this is so. The Founding Fathers, never ones to sugarcoat things, put it starkly, right there in Article II, Section 1: "No person except a natural born citizen ... shall be eligible to the office of President; neither shall any person be eligible to that office who shall not have attained to the age of 35 years..."

		Frank Nepa is a writer living in Shadyside (fnepa@aol.com).

If those couple of dozen words aren't scarier to you than everything Stephen King has ever written down, here's an exercise that I want you to try: On the morning of your 35th birthday (mine took place recently), crawl out of bed, make your way to a mirror and take a good, hard look at yourself. Look at your three-days-unshaven face and your Indiana University 1987 NCAA Basketball Champions T-shirt (purchased in 1987). Now turn to the side and look at the clothes strewn all over your bedroom floor, including your favorite -- and, if you want to be precise about it, only -- pair of jeans, the ones that are still trudging along after 14 consecutive unwashed weeks. And then take a look at that huge stack of unopened mail on the dresser and, after that, the empty Chicken McNuggets container and the dog-eared Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue.

Now try this phrase on for size: President You.

The authors of our Constitution, bright men all, writing with an almost divine foresight, seem to have gotten just about everything right (although perhaps they were a little off the beam on the whole "right to bear arms" thing, but who among us has ever batted a thousand?). And these men, in their infinite wisdom, deemed that at the magical age of 35, an American will have -- or at least should have -- achieved the level of maturity and knowledge and trustworthiness and experience necessary to run the whole damn country. To be the commander-in-freaking-chief!

I don't know about you all, but this strikes me as a pretty big deal. (And yet the 30-year-olds are the ones who get their own birthday card.)

The scary part is that I -- and I don't think that I'm alone here, brothers and sisters -- do not measure up. My complete lack of accomplishment, not to mention leadership skills, financial wherewithal and base of support, have left me way back in the polls. I don't have a smiling blond wife or a pretty blond daughter just accepted into Dartmouth. (I do have a mother and two aunts who, on my 35th, dropped by my place with a cake and proceeded to make my bed.) I don't have rich, powerful friends who look out for me at every turn (I have "friends" whose idea of celebrating my birthday is sending me an e-card).

I don't have a vision for my future, let alone the country's. (And people think Bush is bad. My entire economic stimulus plan would involve free microwave popcorn after your 10th Blockbuster rental.)

So, I'm sorry, but I don't want to hear any complaining about any of these other birthdays. This is the one that haunts you. This is the one that not only points out how much of a failure you are, it taunts you with the fact that you are on the path to failing for, conceivably, another 50 years. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm sure that there are a ton of regrets and disappointments that go along with turning 80, but let's face it, those regrets and disappointments probably won't be around all that much longer.

No, 35 is the one where it first sinks in that time is truly of the essence and that you can continue with the fantasy-football leagues and watching "The O.C." if you want to, but you do so at your own peril, leaving you no real chance of ever capturing Illinois' 22 electoral votes.

Thirty-five is really the only birthday that tells you in more ways than one that you have a long way to go.

At least that's what it told me. And so I've been trying to straighten up a little bit. I've been devising a foreign policy strategy with a few of my advisers. Actually, I've merely decided that I want to visit Italy again, but that's a start, right?

And I think I've found a way to fund my campaign for the White House. I should make millions with my idea for a new birthday card. On the front are the lines from our Constitution outlining the age requirements to qualify to become president of the United States. On the inside, it says, "Happy 35th. Now, my friend, James Madison and the boys think it's about time that you grew the hell up."