Life’s Short — Eat Cheetos
My fingers are stained orange as I type this because I ate crunchy Cheetos for lunch. You’ll see why later.
None of us knows the exact time and date of our deaths. Mortality statistics give us the impression that we’ll live to a ripe old age (76.3 years for males; 81.1 years for females). Without a firm idea of the time we have left, some of us put off doing things (saying things), believing we have all the time in the world.
That’s why I read obits. These stand out in my memory.
- the vivacious 19-year-old woman who suffered a fatal seizure
- the 45-year-old woman who died after a recurrence of breast cancer
- the 52-year-old father who had a heart attack while sitting in front of his home computer
- the adventurous 23-year-old who died in an avalanche while snowboarding
I don’t know any of these people personally. But I wonder how they spent their lives. Did the 45-year-old woman always skip dessert thinking the calories weren’t worth it? Did the father regret how often he brought work home instead of playing catch with his sons? Did the 19-year-old have a fight with her dad and didn’t have a chance to say she was sorry?
Whether we live 20 years or 100 years, life is short. And regrets are a bitch.
- Call the estranged relative.
- Take the vacation.
- Write the book.
- Retire at age 55.
- Buy the house (or new chair, or bicycle, or shoes).
- Eat Cheetos for lunch.
