As I remember it, I wasn’t particularly annoyed when the AARP invited me to join its seasoned ranks more than 10 years ago. I had been forewarned that getting such a missive was inevitable once I hit the milestone known as The Big 5-0.
Turning 50 didn’t really faze me all that much. I took the black balloons, the complimentary Geritol, the over-the-hill jokes and the “condolences” in stride. What happened 10 years later was a bigger deal. Sixty was a much more significant marker, one that carried a far more troublesome reminder of my own mortality.
But both of those turning points paled by comparison to the form letter that arrived in the mail yesterday. It claimed that I may qualify for something called the Funeral Advantage Program, which supposedly would pay my family up to $20,000 if I should kick the bucket. Or, as the letter put it more tactfully, “in the event of (my) death.”
Granted, I could drop dead any day now, or be diagnosed with a terminal disease. But so could most anyone else, regardless of age. At 63, I’m well aware that most of my life is only visible through the rear-view mirror. Still, the Social Security Administration says a man reaching 65 today (and I won’t stumble across that line until late 2015) can expect to live until 84, on average. One out of every four 65-year-olds will survive longer than 90 years, and one out of 10 will see the far side of 95.
I’m not in perfect health, but who is? For the most part, the apparatus is still in good working order. I eat well and exercise regularly. I’m not remotely overweight. I don’t smoke or do drugs, and I rarely consume alcohol. My father died just shy of his 91st birthday, and my mother lived until she was 91 1/2. I tossed the Funeral Advantage Program’s letter, not just because I’ve never heard of this “program,” but also because I don’t think it’s unreasonable to hope I’ll be around for a little while yet. (Knock on wood.)
The fates are fickle, though, and I certainly don’t want to tempt them. Both of my parents lost siblings at a relatively young age. My maternal grandparents, Wilbrod and Albertine Archambeault, lived long lives, but my father’s parents, William and Eva Carrière, were not so lucky. There are no guarantees. Every day is a gift.
So I’ve settled on a compromise. While I’m not making funeral arrangements just yet, this may be a good time to start working on my bucket list.
Turning 50 didn’t really faze me all that much. I took the black balloons, the complimentary Geritol, the over-the-hill jokes and the “condolences” in stride. What happened 10 years later was a bigger deal. Sixty was a much more significant marker, one that carried a far more troublesome reminder of my own mortality.
But both of those turning points paled by comparison to the form letter that arrived in the mail yesterday. It claimed that I may qualify for something called the Funeral Advantage Program, which supposedly would pay my family up to $20,000 if I should kick the bucket. Or, as the letter put it more tactfully, “in the event of (my) death.”
Granted, I could drop dead any day now, or be diagnosed with a terminal disease. But so could most anyone else, regardless of age. At 63, I’m well aware that most of my life is only visible through the rear-view mirror. Still, the Social Security Administration says a man reaching 65 today (and I won’t stumble across that line until late 2015) can expect to live until 84, on average. One out of every four 65-year-olds will survive longer than 90 years, and one out of 10 will see the far side of 95.
I’m not in perfect health, but who is? For the most part, the apparatus is still in good working order. I eat well and exercise regularly. I’m not remotely overweight. I don’t smoke or do drugs, and I rarely consume alcohol. My father died just shy of his 91st birthday, and my mother lived until she was 91 1/2. I tossed the Funeral Advantage Program’s letter, not just because I’ve never heard of this “program,” but also because I don’t think it’s unreasonable to hope I’ll be around for a little while yet. (Knock on wood.)
The fates are fickle, though, and I certainly don’t want to tempt them. Both of my parents lost siblings at a relatively young age. My maternal grandparents, Wilbrod and Albertine Archambeault, lived long lives, but my father’s parents, William and Eva Carrière, were not so lucky. There are no guarantees. Every day is a gift.
So I’ve settled on a compromise. While I’m not making funeral arrangements just yet, this may be a good time to start working on my bucket list.
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