I recently had a birthday. Yep, another one. So I’m 76, which is fine, right? It’s the new 66 — or the new 86 — I can’t remember how that goes. I’m in good health, considering the abuses I’ve put myself through. I have the maladies that old people are supposed to have: unsure ankles, wonky knees and a hip that doesn’t want to be a hip anymore. I also have various issues with various tissues that we needn’t go into here. I’m getting old. It’s what’s expected. Of course, I don’t yet know my exact end date — but it’s definitely coming up — it’s nearer to me than my memories.
So, it’s time for me to take a good, hard look forward: it’s time to get responsible about my dying. I’ll make some plans so that the loved ones I’ll be leaving behind will be able to proceed with a blueprint of some kind. I’ll make lists for Jill, my wonderful wife. Bank accounts, insurance policies, pension plans, house expenses, car leases: I’ll leave clear instructions. The only problem being that Jill never reads instructions. She prefers to plunge in and let the chips fall where they may. Which is what they do, of course. Fall, that is. Where they may. Ah, well. What I will do before I die is give her face-to-face lessons on the three remotes that control the TV because they’re impenetrable. Our kids will help her. They’ll help get her back on track.