It seems that everything is relative. For instance, 70 strokes on a golf card is nice. Alas, 70 candles on a birthday cake – especially if it’s your birthday cake – is not so nice.
Yours truly turned 70 the other day. Seven-oh. Actually, seventy uh-oh.
Oh, well. They say that 70 is the new 50. Unfortunately, my knees and back after decades of athletic abuse are the new 90.
Granted, geezers in their 70s are running for president. Donald Trump, who shares my birthdate of June 14, is 73. Joe Biden is 76. Bernie Sanders is 77. If Warren Harding comes back from the dead and opts to run again, he’ll be 154.
I guess the political arena is the new Fountain of Youth because for the average schmuck, 70 is old as dirt.
That’s the age kids start calling you Methuselah instead of Mister. Methuselah, by the way, lived to 969. Doubt that? It’s in the Bible. Methuselah was grateful to God that he didn’t live in Pennsylvania.
According to a study by SeniorLiving.org, Pennsylvanians have an average life expectancy of 78.5 years.
The sands in my hourglass apparently are running low. My shelf life evidently is sprinting (something I no longer do) toward the expiration date.
Consequently, I have scratched plans to attend the 2036 Summer Olympic Games.
I’m now receiving literature in the mail from funeral homes about making burial plans.
There is something morbid about making funeral plans when the dead body is going to be yours.
Why jump on this? When you’re dead, your burial plans are not your problem. Let somebody else, whether it’s your spouse or your children, take care of it.
Besides, I assume that my recently deceased soul will be rather preoccupied trying to pass muster with St. Peter at the Pearly Gates, no easy feat considering that I have wolfed through the pastry tray of life with gulping gusto.
Of course, there always is a good news-bad news karma about everything.
If we live longer, some unhealthy Social Security and 401(k) issues may give us a heart attack. That in itself may slow our progress toward eternal life here on earth.
Another negative about longer life is the quality of life. If you don’t remember your name or need a forklift to get from the bedroom to the bathroom, a longer life span may not prompt jumping jacks of joy.
Right now my mind seems pretty good even if I did mistake my TV remote for a bottle of water and took it to the gym to hydrate myself. The only way you can hydrate with a TV remote is if you suck the juice from the batteries. Nine out of 10 doctors claim that’s bad for your digestive tract.
Since I likely have only 8.5 years of life left, I’m considering a move to Hawaii where the average life expectancy is 81.3 years. If I arrive tomorrow on Oahu, where I’ve been seven times and absolutely love, that will give me 11.3 years to work on my tan.
Unless, of course, I drown off the North Shore surfing a 40-foot wave while blind drunk on a barrel of Mai Tai’s.
