I’m not Going to Die; Die can Come to Me


The people who know me best can attest to my one great skill: efficiency of motion. As I’ve gotten older, my movements have become increasingly calculated. Trips to the boy’s room tend to have a sense of urgency to them, as I’ve waited as long as possible to see if another and as yet unseen need or want can be addressed along the way. Whenever I get out of my easy chair, others turn and watch (partly from the symphony of sounds – creaks, cracks, groans and toots) because they know the trip must be an important one. If I walk to my car and get in, only to realize I’ve forgotten something, it’s usually going to have to wait until the next trip. (Unless my wife answers the horn).

I figure that at my age and in my current state (Arizona), each step is potentially my last; I’m not wasting ’em.  People speak of the inexorable march towards old age and ultimate death; this sounds depressing to me, not only for the inevitable result, but also for the considerable effort implied in getting there. “March”, to me, is a month. In my vocabulary’s verb closet, “march” sits tucked in a corner – unused, dusty and cobwebbed. No, death can come to me like a thief in the night, or a home invasion in broad daylight; I won’t be hard to find.

"I want my gin and tonic." - Google Images

“I want my gin and tonic.” – Google Images

Sadly, my philosophy of sloth is, in part, merely that; I still have to work to maintain the lifestyle (impoverished) to which my wife has become accustomed.  The movements necessary to appease customers, creditors and the frau, therefore, make the ones I have remaining that much more precious.  As a member of the fifty plus club I am considered a time bomb ticking toward the inevitable explosion. Well, you don’t shake a bomb; you don’t even want to move it, lest it go off. You leave it alone. You let it sit.

I know in the past that some of the Struggler’s assertions have seemed somewhat harebrained. (As an example, the Gin and Tonic for Dinner Diet didn’t quite pan out: Now I’m fat and an alcoholic). This plan is gold, however; frankly, I don’t see how it can go wrong.

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About Thestrugglershandbook

I'm a middle aged (if I live to be 100) guy, married, father of three, from Tucson, AZ. I'll write about almost anything. Though somewhat bent, what I write is always true(ish). It won't change your life, however. Unless that would preclude you from reading...
This entry was posted in Aging, Death, Diet, Health, Humor, Life, Living, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to I’m not Going to Die; Die can Come to Me

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