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Old is not a four-letter word.
And neither is death.
When I was in my late twenties a woman much younger than I asked me how old I was. She was hot, I was horny and I was afraid my age would be a deal killer, so I dodged her question with a ridiculous answer I hoped she would laugh off: I told her I was 60.
At that time and for many years following, 60 was the edge of a cliff. I was ageless until 60, and after that I presumed myself to be dead. My vision somewhat matched the Beatles, who wondered “Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m 64?” Or, more recently, Ed Sheeran and Amy Wadge, whose song “Thinking Out Loud” pledges, “Darlin’ I will be lovin’ you, till we’re 70.”
What happens after 70?
Doesn’t matter; by then you’re as good as dead.
Ezekiel J. Emanuel, an oncologist and bioethicist, wrote recently in The Atlantic that he doesn’t want to live past 75. To a person already well past that expiration date, his pledge sounded an awful lot like, “I’m gonna quit smoking tomorrow.” Let’s check in with him 15 years from now to see how that plays out. He says he’s not talking about suicide, it’s just that he’s going to forgo…
