Requesting A Late Check Out

My dad died 19 years ago today.

He was 76.

Now, at 66, I find his final tally of years decidedly on the low side.  Mom wrung nearly 90 years out of her life clock and that, as we like to say, still sounds like "a good run".

Quality of life matters more than a little to most of us and, in truth, both my parents hit some rough waters toward the end.  Arthritis, cancer and, most cruel of all, dementia ruined at least five of their respective later years.  Peaceful worked neither as adjective or adverb for either exit.

Recently I read that a man reaching age 65 has a good chance of lasting another 17 years; a woman another 20.  The problem with this is that I'm certain I have plans requiring more time than that measly allowance.  I still feel great!  Doesn't that buy me some extra years?  Heck, I've only lived in 11 states so far.  How am I going to squeeze in the other 39 before checking in to the Horizontal Hilton?

When I was younger I thought more in terms of jobs I wanted, places I needed to see, and people with whom I desired to settle a score.  These days, because of much travel, my list of places to see has been whittled down considerably.  Jobs, thanks to some luck investing, no longer interest me much though I still hanker to give hell to a few folks and kick the asses of no fewer than a couple of former bosses.  "All in good time," I tell myself.  But HOW MUCH DO I HAVE??!!

Don't get me wrong.  Most of the time I'm grateful.  If I booked it to the great beyond tomorrow, I've already had a very good life.  Good parents, brother, wife, kids, and other than the Army and a stint as a teenage grocery bag boy, I've never worked a day IN MY LIFE.  With more nerve than brains or talent I conned broadcast companies into paying me good money to show up for four hours a day to talk to people I couldn't see.  State mental hospitals are full of people doing the same for nothing.  Sweet!

Inside this 66 year-old body I call home lives the soul of an immature 15 year-old who still believes there are endless possibilities just ahead.  It's only when I wake at 3 in the morning--thank you prostate the size of a '56 Buick Roadmaster--that a real panic develops regarding how much sand is left in the old hourglass.  When that happens I try to recall the wisdom of the Earl in the comic strip  "Pickles" who said, "Life is like a blanket that's a little too short.  Pull it up and your toes freeze; yank it down and your shoulders get cold.  The best thing to do is curl up in a fetal position and try to stay comfortable until it's over."  It seems logical.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some old guy stuff to get to…

"HEY YOU KIDS,  GET OFF MY LAWN!!!"