I know it’s sick to think this way, but I can’t help myself.
About six months ago, I started looking at various tables representing life expectancy. It’s like I want to make sure I beat the survival average for my gender and nationality. There are many ways the experts can slice the numbers. I’m either supposed to be dead by the time I’m 76.1 (right around the corner), or I stay upright until 92.4 (generations away).
Don’s sick brain talking to Don: “Wouldn’t it be a poor showing if you dropped dead before your time is due? You better eat more vegetables, quit stressing out over the little stuff and find a better mantra to chant while meditating.”
Don’s even sicker brain continues to talk to Don: “Maybe you should be more proactive and make a list of all the men you know in your age group who you think may outlast you. Then you can subtly recommend high-risk behaviors to them. “Hey Joe, I hear cliff diving is a fun activity.” “Peter, did you know the new high fat, high sugar diet will make you look years younger?” “George, how fast can that new car of yours go around Deadman’s Curve?”
Then, when I pass at a respectable age, beating the odds by a dozen years, the few friends left to attend my funeral will remark to each other, “Don was a peculiar and insecure man. It’s too bad he lived so long.”