The one thing we know for certain is, we’re going to die. All 8 billion of us are going to turn toes up and croak. Some day. Life is a limited engagement, you know, but we’ve no idea how long we’ll be onstage.
I, myself, am somewhat fearful of dying. Not of death, just the dying. I’d like to skip from happy as a lark to dead as a doornail in a nanosecond. As a compromise, I’d settle for not being reminded every flipping minute of every flipping day that the end is near. Very near. So near you can smell it. So, in desperation, I’ve stopped listening to local weather forecasters, medical experts, the evening news, Republicans, Apple watches, car horns, and my body. And fortune tellers, too, they can butt right out.
The not knowing when or how or any of the particulars surrounding my inevitable demise is a blessing. Such blissful ignorance allows humans like us to carry on unburdened by stark, unwelcome facts. We’re free to enjoy our brief time as living, breathing, sentient beings. Heck, I refuse to concede I’ll ever die, although I admit the odds are stacked against me living forever. But as long as I keep shoving that thought out of my head, I’m eternal and my time is infinite.
Get this., though. A looming milestone recently began throwing a wrench into my usual avoidance technique. Turns out, reality is impossible to ignore when it’s staring you in the face. So I threw out the invitation to my high school reunion and I feel thirty years younger. Maybe forty.
Ah, life is good.
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the whirly girl 
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