One of my favorite commercials has the tag line "Life comes at ya fast."

And while the commercials themselves are unmemorable, the truth that rests behind that phrase hits harder than the recent blast of arctic air we've experienced.

The reminders of old man winter (emphasis on OLD) accompanying that blast hit me last weekend when I found myself practicing my golf swing (without a club) in the middle of my living room. This is the same behavior I have made fun of my dad for over the past three decades.

BAM! Life comes at ya fast.

My much younger wife (nine days, to be exact) was quick to point out my actions reminded her of my dad, and then she questioned if I'd get that same little bald patch at the back of my ever-thickening skull.

It eventually crept up his head and now covers about 66 percent of his cranium, kind of like the oceans and the earth.

Naturally, what is a quickly aging mid-30 something to do but ponder the obvious question "What else do I do that reminds me of Dad?"

Somewhere along the line, walking became a habit I inherited and now consider a sport, just like my dad does.

We sometimes compare walking shoes, which is the only equipment required for this "sport."

The reason walking is a sport is actually pretty simple: All professional athletes are crybaby, spoiled, steroid-popping wimps. It's a conclusion both of us reached during our mid-30s, which is when Dad gave up professional football and I swore off, and at, the Pittsburgh Pirates, once and for all.

Similarly, we both gave up the need for a mean machine, aka turbo-charged rocket engine car that seats two and has no room for booster seats.

Instead, we drive reasonable cars that can fit the family and even a pet once in a while. They're great at the drive-thru window of any fast food chain, too. And have you seen the mileage these babies are getting? Awesome!

Like my dad, family has replaced plenty of friends as the most important people in my life, although when I get together with my friends, we sit back and still make fun of our dads — as well as the fact that we are becoming those same men.

My music is now "classic," whatever that means. My wife suggested it means they only play it during the drive to and from work, and occasionally on a Best of the '80s weekend. I almost died when I found myself tapping my toe to the oldies station a few days ago and later asked a few of my students to please turn their MP3 players down since it could hurt their eardrums.

My diet now consists of fruits and vegetables, and every once in a while, a cheeseburger. But eating that requires an extra lap or two at the YMCA, so I stay away from that, just like my dad.

Suddenly, a need to call my dad arises from all of these habits, and I ask a simple question to my child bride.

"Have you seen the phone?"

"It's probably by your walking shoes or under your imaginary golf club … Jim."

At least we both married great women who love us for who we are.

Christian Ola, a community columnist for the Butler Eagle, resides in Mars with his wife, son and daughter and can be reached at christianolac@aol.com.