Death in the '50s

This last two weeks has seen a rash of deaths in the media and among our colleagues: Ritter, Palmer, a prominent CTV anchorman, the principal of a local school, the former Dean of fine arts; and three out of four of the finance professors on our campus have been sent to hospital for massive heart surgery or cancer treatments or etc. It has been a most distressing time. And most of the men have been in their mid-fifties.

The recurrent theme of men in their fifties keeling over has, naturally enough, led Mary to renewed expressions of concern for the state of my own health. The thought of me departing at age 55 and leaving Mary with a new-born and a five year old to bring up is not a happy one. So Mary has once again begun pointing out that I had promised to lose my excess weight by age 50 and I am now in considerable arrears on that target. There was even, as I dipped into the current tin of two-bite brownies, a 'look' that appeared to suggest that I ought to put said brownie back.

There is, of course an alternative view here, to which I happen to subscribe. The way I see it, if I am destined to check out at age 55, then I only have a couple of years left in which to consume my full quota of brownies. Far from going on a diet, I am going to have to redouble my efforts to live life to the fullest in the time left to me, and that necessarily includes a bin of two-bite brownies a week. Preferably with a side dish of really good vanilla ice cream.