Please don’t stop reading. I promise that, despite the title, what follows is not a downer. Rather, it’s an observation, a practical consideration, and maybe even a little bit funny.
What precipitated my seemingly ghoulish reflection was an actual conversation I had with my husband, a semi-retired attorney, who, for the past three years has been vowing that this year would be the last. However, you did notice that the prefix is still attached to the verb.
It has been said, by Ben Franklin, I think, that the only things in life that are certain are death and taxes. I’ve taken the liberty of adding a third item to the traditional twosome, the annual physical exam. A call from my doctor’s office reminding me that another year has gone by is now among the inevitable. And at this stage of life it would be foolish to ignore the request to make an appointment. Especially since I’m fiercely dedicated to postponing Certainty #1 for as long as possible.
Come on, admit it. We are all subject to occasional morbid thoughts, especially at that point in life when the number representing our chronological age exceeds the highway speed limit. Don’t tell me that you never think about the Grim Reaper, the Dark Angel, or any of the other euphemisms you can name to avoid the “D” word.
I confess to having morbid thoughts on three different occasions during the past month.
Maybe it was prophetic, but what most recently got me thinking about time and mortality was the need for a new watch. An awkward movement of my left elbow while leaning in to apply mascara had landed my old, faithful, expensive timepiece on the unforgiving tile floor of the bathroom. Its poor little face was smashed to smithereens, and even with my untrained eye, I knew it was broken beyond repair.