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Today I’m 82 and I just had my house painted. As I was looking it over yesterday, I thought to myself, “Well, I won’t have to do that for another twenty years.” But then a disquieting but also strangely satisfying thought came to my mind: According to Social Security actuary tables, I only have 7.26 years left, and that means I will surely never have to have my house painted again.
Think about that: I’ll never have my house painted until the end of time, when the stars go out one by one and the universe itself finally pffts out of existence.
I suppose I ought to stop and celebrate such an important event in my life, but it’s just darned hard to celebrate a new coat of paint, despite its metaphysical implications.