As my sixtieth birthday creeps closer, my mind drifts to thoughts of catastrophic illness and death.  It is not the first time.  I once had a crush on Janice Zloto.  She had a crush on my best friend.  I wanted to die.  But I was only in sixth grade.

Five years ago I thought I was having a heart attack and spent the night in a hospital, but it turns out I was just hot and sweaty and upset that Eve had beat me in tennis.  And two years ago I thought I was having a stroke and woke Eve up in the middle of the night to drive me to the hospital, but it was just really bad sinuses.

These days I feel pretty fine.  But then I remembered how old my grandparents and parents were when they died and I calculated my life expectancy, with precision.  My conclusion is that it is best not to put some things off.

Like buying a convertible, for instance.   I am about ready to trade in my SUV for something a little more youthfully invigorating.  And I am thinking about going skiing in Europe next season -- that has always on my list.   Lunch in Switzerland and then after a few runs a hot chocolate in Italy.  That sounds pretty good and I figure I ought to do it before I am too stiff to bend over and buckle my boots.  I also want to ride my bike in Mallorca along the ocean.

The shadow has his list, and I am moving up.  There is no time to lose.