22,000 Down and 9,000 To Go (if I’m Lucky)

Sometimes the math doesn't add up like we want it to.

Photo by Alex P: https://www.pexels.com/

A good friend's brother recently died. He was only 67, young by today's longevity standards. Robbie was one of the kids growing up in my working-class neighborhood in the 1960s. I didn't see him for years after he went to college and relocated to the West Coast.

The last time I saw him was at his father's funeral ten years ago. Both of his parents had made it well into their 70s and 80s.

Whenever someone I know dies, I start doing math.

I calculate how many years they lived compared to their parents, and I wonder about the years they missed. If Robbie had lived to 85 like his mother, that would have been two more decades—approximately 6,500 more days of life.

Inevitably, I think about my own odds. With semi-decent genes and no catastrophic diagnosis so far, what are my chances? The actuarial tables give me about 25 more years if I'm lucky. That's roughly 9,000 mornings. It sounds like a lot until I remember I've already lived through about 22,000.

I'm almost 62, and it's unlikely that I'll live another 60, 50, or 40 years. I'm past my midpoint age.

I tell my kids I'm going to live until I'm 100. I know it's magical thinking. I don't know why I say it, because I don't really want to live that long. I don't want to live a minute past when my body becomes incurably diseased, permanently immobile, or when my brain farts become too many.

Ableist thinking is wrong, and I feel guilty about saying I don't want to stay alive when my body starts making things ugly. I'm part of the culture that worships youth.

I want to be on-brand alive until right before I kick the bucket.

As a boomer, being on-brand alive means more than just independence. It's about still looking relatively energetic, wearing clothes that don't scream 'granny,' being active enough to play pickleball, and having the energy to get down on the floor (and back up) with my grandkids.

Our generation redefined what it means to be in your 60s and 70s. In a Cialis commercial, the couple looks elegantly aged but spry. They look good old and perky enough for when those pills kick in. They are proof that as long as I keep taking my supplements and administering my anti-aging skin care regimen, I still have a bit of a runway.

In my parents' day, people looked over the hill at 50. They wore drab clothing and black-rimmed bifocals. They accepted they were old and had more matter-of-fact attitudes toward death. Those plastic slip-covered couches weren't just furniture—they were a life philosophy: prepared for accidents, practicality over comfort, and destined to outlive their owners. Meanwhile, our generation buys overstuffed white sofas and pretends we never spill anything.

Another case in point.

When my husband and I used to call Bingo at a nursing home, we noticed one of the regulars hadn't shown up.

When I asked where Joanna was, a woman piped up pleasantly, "Oh, she died."

I'd only just seen Joanna a couple of weeks ago. While she’d been on a downward spiral mentally, I was expecting to see her again. Seeing my mouth agape, the woman waved me off with the simple words, "It was her time."

My parents were also members of this no-nonsense stock. By their mid-fifties, they had prepared their will, assembled all their assets and banking information into a binder for when the time came, and handed me my copy for safekeeping.

When I achieved this milestone, I had embraced the "50 is the new 40" mantra.

I wasn't ready to write a will, and I wasn't preparing to go anywhere.

While my parents methodically preparing for their demise in their fifties, I still felt youthful, refusing to acknowledge that same milestone.

That gap in perspective speaks volumes.

The math of mortality has shifted my priorities. Even though numbers go to infinity, I know my time is finite. My last day is coming, no matter what.

There's an irony here—while I still buy those anti-aging creams and schedule my pickleball games, I'm simultaneously planning for my absence.

My husband and I finally made a will. I have a semi-complete list of subscriptions, passwords, and digital accounts.

This may be what it means to age in this in-between generation: we play the game of endless youth while quietly acknowledging its finite nature. We have one foot in our parents' practical world and one in the fantasy of extended youth.

Wisdom isn't found at either end, but in learning to balance between them—enjoying each remaining morning while accepting their limited number.

Have you started doing your mortality math, or are you still telling yourself the pickleball court will be there forever?" Let me know in the comments.

---

Remember this Friday, February 28th, is an Economic Blackout for resisters of the coup.

Don’t buy anything online or in-store; do not use credit or debit cards for 24 hours. Is this your first time hearing about this? Read more about it in this Forbes article.

---

From September 7 - 13, 2025, a group of ladies and I will visit the island of Zakynthos, Greece. If you’d like to learn more about the trip, I’m holding an information Zoom this Saturday, March 1st, at 10 a.m. EST. Let me know in the comments if you’d like to come, and I’ll send you the link. You can also reply to this email, which works, too. To read all about the itinerary and cost, go to my Travelings Women’s Circle website or Substack.

---

I visited my friend Mike on the Rational Boomer this week. We talked about the current state of things and saving our democracy. The duration is about an hour. You can also listen on Spotify.