If you haven’t heard yet about the St. Louis Cardinals pitcher who died this past weekend…he was 33 and supposedly in pretty darned good health. He died in the same hotel I slept in a couple of weeks ago.
I am going to die.
I am not afraid of death. When I go, I go. But, frankly, I’d much prefer to stick around for a while. I’m having a pretty good time with my life and I don’t have much desire to visit the great beyond right now.
The thing is…I routinely vandalize my temple. Booze graffiti, fried food toilet paper, and a host of other unmentionable rocks that get thrown through my temple’s windows are going to kill me. I’m 28 years old.
Editor’s note: This is not an invitation for you to start listing ways in the comments section about how poorly I treat my body. I’m fully aware of it, thank you.
This happens to me once every few years. An old roommate called it “That Fear of Death Thing.”
I once lived alone in Jackson, Mississippi. Since there was no one around to complain, I routinely walked around my one bedroom apartment without a shirt. Over the course of a few months, I noticed a strange freckle in my navel. It didn’t take long for me to start believing that I had Belly Button Cancer.
As it turned out, the freckle was just a freckle. Guess it had been there for a long time and it just took an expanding waistline for me to see it.
But, oh God!. I was getting fat! Again! Surely my arteries were clogged. My heart working much too hard! Heart disease…a family problem.
Blood pressure…fine. Cholestesterol…fine. Heart rate…fine.
Yet…I’m going to die.
I don’t routinely think I’m sick. I make myself sick a lot, but constant problems of hypochondria are not my bag. I don’t fall ill very often. And frankly, that scares me. I mean, my body must be storing up all a life’s illnesses for one big sha-bang.
I think I need to have a minor illness. Right now.
I’m off to lick a sick person’s sweat.