On not being dead

Today, I've become the age that Jack Benny was every year until the day he died.

I have a feeling that this year, my funny-as-fuck Jack Benny year, is going to be good. Due in no small part to the sudden absense of the niggling thought that I would only live to be 38.

There was no rational reason to think this, of course. I'm healthy and my people generally reach into the very respectable 70's before snuffing it. So why I thought it, I don't really know. Maybe I imagine I'm unique and expect to be one of those who gets the "Oh, she was so young..." comments said about her by shocked mourners. Maybe it's because fat, lethargic smokers are supposed to exit early.

Maybe 38 just felt somehow like my number.

Robyn Hitchcock once said about death (paraphrasing here), "It's like the last present under the tree, but we never get to open it and find out what it is."

We all know it's coming. Even if we don't think or talk about it every day, we all know death awaits. I'm not afraid of it, exactly, but I would like to know ahead of time when it will be my turn, so I can ease into the idea and make the transition as neat and tidy as possible. Like on a quiet Sunday night at home, when you're folding laundry & packing a lunch for the start of your work week....

Now, I don't fold laundry on Sunday nights, and I'm usually racing around like a speed-freak trying to throw something edible together for lunch before dashing out the door. But I like to think that, on the eve of my death, I would seriously get my shit in order. Of course, knowing just how strong my aptitude for procrastination is, that's probably a pipe dream.

But still, if given the option to know my expiration date, I would choose yes.

I made it through age 38 and my feeling of dread was wrong. So to come right out and say that I expect my 39th year to be good, likely means that in the coming months, I will lose a leg in a combining accident. Or inherit the collected works of Bob Seger. Or a large insect will gain entrance into my body via some unsecured orifice whilst I'm sleeping, and wreak havoc with the copper piping.

All horrifying, but very survivable, maladies.

And lingering in the back of my mind, for no other reason than 'just because', is the number 44.