...old age is a four letter word*
I recently (tonight) concluded that I do not wish to participate in the "Golden Years" of old age. Let us put aside for a moment the fact that I am only thirty and thus far, in good health. (Knock on wood! KNOCK ON WOOD!) This does not mean I am not permitted to be concerned about these things.
I blame Glamour and that man with popcorn lung from Colorado (I eat a lot of microwaved popcorn. Not as much as this dude, but still). I picked up a Glamour magazine for my trip to the laundromat the other day, and it just happened to be the issue they printed the article, Your skin this summer: What's normal, what's not, in.
(I tried to find a link on their website for this, but incidentally skin cancer must not be a pretty enough ailment to warrant a spot on their site. They'd rather make you pay for the chance to save your own life, I guess. Maybe if skin cancer was a growing threat to the ta-tas there'd be a bigger stink made about it.** But I digress.)
Where was I? Oh, right. Glamour scared the shit out of me tonight when they printed a picture of
my someone's funky looking freckles. Like I need any more reasons to be concerned about skin cancer.
- Blonde hair? Check!
- Blue eyes? Check!
- Fair skin? Double-check!
- An unfathomable amount of exposure to UV rays in your lifetime because you were made to play outside when you were younger and no one believed in sunblock back then? Triple-check!
At any rate, I've decided that when I go I want it to be before I'm covered in festering lesions or hooked up to any tubes and hoses (or bells and whistles for that matter). Therefore, I'm looking into alternative routes.***
Since I'll never be an old, balding fat man with a bad heart, I can pretty much rule out croaking during sex. Bummer. There's always the Choose Your Own Adventure route. You know, like free-falling off a cliff. Or swimming with the sharks. Or marrying a producer for Survivor. Me, I'm just not that adventurous.
One night, a friend and I were chit-chatting, and he outlined the plan for his demise to me. I don't want to ruin the surprise, but I will tell you that it is going to be pretty. All sparkly and colorful. But it's probably going to smell really, really bad.
For my quest to find my ideal fast-track to death's doorstep, I've drawn up, if you will, some criteria (in no particular order):
- It can't hurt too bad. Some pain is fine, but no suffering. And certainly no pain that'll last for extended periods of time. In other words, NO SUFFERING. That would defeat the whole purpose.
- No messes. I don't want to go splat on the pavement somewhere. Or end up a mangled mess after a car accident. Dismemberment would be fine as long as it doesn't violate number one. And I want all my pieces collectible. As in, they can easily be gathered up and shoved into the same trash bag. A beheading might be interesting...
- Making the news or some list of unusual deaths would be cool, but not mandatory.
- No one else can perish with me. And my death cannot result in the death of others.
- An ironic death would be ideal. Like this dude, who died while giving a farewell speech.
- No burning, drowning or asphyxiation.
Um, that's good for now. How about you? Do you have any preferred ways you'd like to go? Or not go?****
And because, unlike Glamour, I care about you're opportunity to identify questionable moles for free, here's some scary pics (in order of grossness):
(Source: My camera. Don't worry, I paid for the magazine. I made them nice and big so you can click on them and enlarge the images. You're welcome!)
** please don't attack me for being anti-Save the Ta-Tas. I know women who have died from/have had/have breast cancer. I'm all for supporting the boobs, but come on. Share the wealth a little. Where's the promotion to Save the Nut-sacks? Ooh! Or Cup the Nuts! Sorry. Tangent.
*** I'm not suicidal. Well, at least not until PMS rears it's ugly head again.
**** let me assure you, again, for the record, I don't intend on offing myself.