Once again, today’s post-coital chat turned into a discussion about longevity. I say once again because Mr C today was the third gentleman I have had this discussion within as many weeks. Maybe I need to get out more and stop recycling my conversational topics?
The thing that all three of these conversations have had in common (aside from the fact that throughout all three, one participant has been lounging on the bed in her birthday suit whilst the other has been hopping around on one foot trying to put his socks on – why don’t men sit down to do that?) is that the general consensus from all of us has been that we don’t want to live forever.
Being of rather generous proportions, I am often reminded by doctors, my mother, forum users and generally anyone who thinks they have a right to pass comment on another persons person, that I am ‘taking years off my life, being that size’. This comment usually elicits the response from me that since the years I am taking off are from the end of my life to which I’m not particularly looking forward, I’m willing to take that chance!
Seriously, we seem to have developed an obsession over the last forty years with keeping everyone alive for as long as possible, even when Mother Nature is plainly doing her darndest to ‘off’ them!
If what’s in store for me is ten years of wandering vaguely around a nursing home asking for someone who’s been dead for a decade, being told what I can eat and when, and relying on a virtual stranger to take me to the toilet when I need to go and not half an hour after it’s too late – well then, I’d rather stuff myself to the gills with cream cakes and chips now and drop dead unexpectedly in mid-pie.