40 Beats Dead Everytime
by Joe Acton
Okay. So I turned 40. Big deal.
Aside from the fact that when I was a kid I didn't think people lived to be 40 years old, once you're there it ain't so bad.
I mean, what else can happen to me just because I'm one day older? My hair has already fallen out, my stomach is running neck and neck with my toes in a race to see which will touch the wall first, and I already wear pop-bottle thick glasses that I can use like a magnifying glass to start fires in the woods.
So what else can happen?
Well, first of all I have this uncontrollable urge to wear my pants higher. A lot higher. You remember how high your dad's pants were? By the time you were 16 they seemed to buckle just below his armpits.
Sad to report but mine are starting to creep up on me and the doctor says there's nothing I can do about it. Says I'll have to learn to live with it for the next 30 years or so. After that, he says, no one will notice since, at The Home, they make you sit in a chair so the drool pools up in your lap.
Besides that, he says, you can save a lot of money at The Home if you wear your pants higher because they don't have to supply you with napkins, you don't need a glasses case because you can put your glasses in your watch pocket, and they can use your belt to hold your head up so you can focus on the needle point demonstrations.
But Dr. Mercedes also had some good news — I'm still healthy — or relatively so for a man of my age. What's all this "for a man of your age" business all of a sudden? Add one lousy day to your age and all of a sudden people start talking like a NASA launch announcer, "Houston, we have Dead-date minus 30 years and counting."
You see, the reason I had to go see Dr. M at all was because my insurance guy, Agent Doom, called me up and told me how much more money I would have to spend to die after I turned 40. Turns out it's a lot cheaper in annual premiums if you die young rather than old because your premiums are lower when you're younger and increase when you get older.
Well, I may be old now but I ain't any dumber, so — after considering all my options I sez to Agent Doom, "Forget the life insurance, just insure me for a couple hundred thousand in comprehensive, that way when I die, all they have to do is declare me a total loss and pay up."
You see, I figure the insurance business is upside down here. When you're young they don't charge you much in life insurance 'cause they don't think you're going to die anytime soon, even though everyone knows your age group does a lot of stupid things. On the other hand, they charge you an arm and a leg in auto insurance 'cause they're sure you're going to stack the car up and kill somebody.
Then when you're old (like me, now) they charge you less for auto insurance 'cause they figure you're not going to stack up the car — even though your reflexes are shot, you've got at least two kids in the car at all times both of whom are sure life as they know it will end if they can't tell you everything that went on today while you're trying to change lanes on I-5 in going-home traffic at 65 mph, and you need two kinds of glasses: one for reading and another for driving and you can never find either.
On the other hand, they charge you a lot more for life insurance since they figure you're probably closer to dying than you were when you were young, even though you've already proven that you don't get old by being stupid or sickly and have probably beaten the odds against an early conference with St. Pete.
Anyway, being insured for comprehensive didn't work out because the underwriters hadn't heard of an Acton model and, besides, there were already too many miles on the chassis.
So back to the regular boring insurance, which, because of a man my age (which was young plus one day), required a physical. And that's when Doc Mercedes came out with his prognosis, "Nothing to worry about here you're in great shape for a specimen of your age." He really said that. Now all of a sudden, I'm a specimen. What kind of crack is that to say to a man of my age?
I know what I think a specimen is and I hope it ain't what he's talking about because I get mad at my kid if she doesn't clean out the cat box every week, so how good a shape can any specimen be in after 40 years?
When you turn 40 everyone at work goes nuts. You know black balloons, R.I.P. signs on your desk, social security claim forms under your coffee cup — the works. Our hot-shot sub-30 graphic designer, Amy Reynolds (that's her real name in case you want to egg her in public for Cruelty To The Aging Young), floated into my office, gently touched my shoulder with the softness of a warm summer's breeze, gazed at me with eyes as big as sewer lids, and intoned, "You know, at age 40, your life is more than half over. But then, nothing is certain — you could go a lot sooner." Amy's busy tuning up her resumé and should be ready to start interviewing — gee — sometime this week, I figure.
Let's face it, we all tend to hang around with people who are in our same basic age group (I got a letter jacket older than Amy). But, there's always a couple years lee way so you never really know how old anyone is.
So about three months ago, without warning, I turned 42 at a sock hop. Skipped right over 40 and 41. It went like this.
It's a sock hop. All the Former BMOCs are there wearing letter jackets that are screaming for mercy because they're stretched so tight (if you don't know what a BMOC is you're too young to be reading this column without adult supervision).
Anyhow, we're all sitting around have a nice shout over the too-loud music and everybody starts comparing when they graduated high school. I can't hear a thing so the gal trying to figure out when I graduated gives up and says something like, "I just turned 40, how old are you going to be on your next birthday." Or something like that, I couldn't make it out. Anyway, I said, "40 too." But of course, we weren't in a spelling bee, so she thought I said "42." Okay, so I'm a pin-head. I spent the rest of the night trying to "look great for 42."
Which brings me to the point of all of this: How can you look really good while you grow older without dieting, exercising, or spending a fortune on elective surgery? Simple: just lie about your age. But don't do it like everyone else does it — use your imagination.
You see, everyone else shaves about 5 to 10 years off their real age. Well look, bunky, if you say you're 10 years younger than you really are, you're under the gun to look 10 years younger. Next thing you know you're going to be eating fruits and nuts, exercising, buying sky-pieces (that's a wig for those of you that didn't listen to what I told you when you didn't know what a BMOC was) and generally trying to wear clothes that you would normally point and gawk at.
Not me. I've got a plan. From now on I'm telling everybody I'm 10 years older than I really am. That way all I have to do is maintain body temperature and continence and everyone will say, "Wow, you don't look 50," or "Man, you're in great shape for 50," or "Boy I hope I look as good as you when I'm your age."
What the heck, 40 ain't so bad. Besides, I'd rather be 40 than pregnant. Honest.
Sometimes it goes on like this for days and days. And then you turn 40. And then you die. And then it gets worse.
Aside from the fact that when I was a kid I didn't think people lived to be 40 years old, once you're there it ain't so bad.
I mean, what else can happen to me just because I'm one day older? My hair has already fallen out, my stomach is running neck and neck with my toes in a race to see which will touch the wall first, and I already wear pop-bottle thick glasses that I can use like a magnifying glass to start fires in the woods.
So what else can happen?
Well, first of all I have this uncontrollable urge to wear my pants higher. A lot higher. You remember how high your dad's pants were? By the time you were 16 they seemed to buckle just below his armpits.
Sad to report but mine are starting to creep up on me and the doctor says there's nothing I can do about it. Says I'll have to learn to live with it for the next 30 years or so. After that, he says, no one will notice since, at The Home, they make you sit in a chair so the drool pools up in your lap.
Besides that, he says, you can save a lot of money at The Home if you wear your pants higher because they don't have to supply you with napkins, you don't need a glasses case because you can put your glasses in your watch pocket, and they can use your belt to hold your head up so you can focus on the needle point demonstrations.
But Dr. Mercedes also had some good news — I'm still healthy — or relatively so for a man of my age. What's all this "for a man of your age" business all of a sudden? Add one lousy day to your age and all of a sudden people start talking like a NASA launch announcer, "Houston, we have Dead-date minus 30 years and counting."
You see, the reason I had to go see Dr. M at all was because my insurance guy, Agent Doom, called me up and told me how much more money I would have to spend to die after I turned 40. Turns out it's a lot cheaper in annual premiums if you die young rather than old because your premiums are lower when you're younger and increase when you get older.
Well, I may be old now but I ain't any dumber, so — after considering all my options I sez to Agent Doom, "Forget the life insurance, just insure me for a couple hundred thousand in comprehensive, that way when I die, all they have to do is declare me a total loss and pay up."
You see, I figure the insurance business is upside down here. When you're young they don't charge you much in life insurance 'cause they don't think you're going to die anytime soon, even though everyone knows your age group does a lot of stupid things. On the other hand, they charge you an arm and a leg in auto insurance 'cause they're sure you're going to stack the car up and kill somebody.
Then when you're old (like me, now) they charge you less for auto insurance 'cause they figure you're not going to stack up the car — even though your reflexes are shot, you've got at least two kids in the car at all times both of whom are sure life as they know it will end if they can't tell you everything that went on today while you're trying to change lanes on I-5 in going-home traffic at 65 mph, and you need two kinds of glasses: one for reading and another for driving and you can never find either.
On the other hand, they charge you a lot more for life insurance since they figure you're probably closer to dying than you were when you were young, even though you've already proven that you don't get old by being stupid or sickly and have probably beaten the odds against an early conference with St. Pete.
Anyway, being insured for comprehensive didn't work out because the underwriters hadn't heard of an Acton model and, besides, there were already too many miles on the chassis.
So back to the regular boring insurance, which, because of a man my age (which was young plus one day), required a physical. And that's when Doc Mercedes came out with his prognosis, "Nothing to worry about here you're in great shape for a specimen of your age." He really said that. Now all of a sudden, I'm a specimen. What kind of crack is that to say to a man of my age?
I know what I think a specimen is and I hope it ain't what he's talking about because I get mad at my kid if she doesn't clean out the cat box every week, so how good a shape can any specimen be in after 40 years?
When you turn 40 everyone at work goes nuts. You know black balloons, R.I.P. signs on your desk, social security claim forms under your coffee cup — the works. Our hot-shot sub-30 graphic designer, Amy Reynolds (that's her real name in case you want to egg her in public for Cruelty To The Aging Young), floated into my office, gently touched my shoulder with the softness of a warm summer's breeze, gazed at me with eyes as big as sewer lids, and intoned, "You know, at age 40, your life is more than half over. But then, nothing is certain — you could go a lot sooner." Amy's busy tuning up her resumé and should be ready to start interviewing — gee — sometime this week, I figure.
Let's face it, we all tend to hang around with people who are in our same basic age group (I got a letter jacket older than Amy). But, there's always a couple years lee way so you never really know how old anyone is.
So about three months ago, without warning, I turned 42 at a sock hop. Skipped right over 40 and 41. It went like this.
It's a sock hop. All the Former BMOCs are there wearing letter jackets that are screaming for mercy because they're stretched so tight (if you don't know what a BMOC is you're too young to be reading this column without adult supervision).
Anyhow, we're all sitting around have a nice shout over the too-loud music and everybody starts comparing when they graduated high school. I can't hear a thing so the gal trying to figure out when I graduated gives up and says something like, "I just turned 40, how old are you going to be on your next birthday." Or something like that, I couldn't make it out. Anyway, I said, "40 too." But of course, we weren't in a spelling bee, so she thought I said "42." Okay, so I'm a pin-head. I spent the rest of the night trying to "look great for 42."
Which brings me to the point of all of this: How can you look really good while you grow older without dieting, exercising, or spending a fortune on elective surgery? Simple: just lie about your age. But don't do it like everyone else does it — use your imagination.
You see, everyone else shaves about 5 to 10 years off their real age. Well look, bunky, if you say you're 10 years younger than you really are, you're under the gun to look 10 years younger. Next thing you know you're going to be eating fruits and nuts, exercising, buying sky-pieces (that's a wig for those of you that didn't listen to what I told you when you didn't know what a BMOC was) and generally trying to wear clothes that you would normally point and gawk at.
Not me. I've got a plan. From now on I'm telling everybody I'm 10 years older than I really am. That way all I have to do is maintain body temperature and continence and everyone will say, "Wow, you don't look 50," or "Man, you're in great shape for 50," or "Boy I hope I look as good as you when I'm your age."
What the heck, 40 ain't so bad. Besides, I'd rather be 40 than pregnant. Honest.
Sometimes it goes on like this for days and days. And then you turn 40. And then you die. And then it gets worse.
