No country for old men
A new report shows that a pretty sizable number of American men drop dead right around age 62, according to an article I read in the Wall Street Journal.
The Cornell University researchers noticed that when men hit that age, a whole lot of them decide to retire, and the death rate jumps 2 percent. If you narrow it down to men who actually do retire at 62, the death rate climbs to a whopping 20 percent. While you’re filing for Social Security, your wife ought to save time and file for survivor benefits. That retirement home in Florida you’ve been dreaming of buying? Make it a rental.
For men, getting older just isn’t that great. All the things you used to do pretty well you’re just OK at, and it usually hurts afterward. And the stuff you wanted to do before you got older? You’re not going to be able to do it now. A young guy who falls over learning to ride a motorcycle bruises his ego. An older guy breaks a hip.
Part of me understands how this early “exit” happens. Most guys my age have come to terms with life. When we were in our 40s, we had the typical midlife crisis. Mine involved a red convertible and, horribly, a soul patch. Now that we’re older, we understand our true purpose — to have children, provide for them, get them through college, and then die as cheaply and quietly as possible.
This story hit me particularly hard because I just turned 57. My wife, who for some reason is keeping track of these things for me, has reminded me for years that statistically, if a man can just make it through his 50s without a visit to the funeral parlor as guest of honor, he’s out of the woods. It’s meant to encourage me, but with only three solid years to go, it feelskind of ominous.
The other day I told her I was thinking of turning in my phone and signing up for another two-year contract. For a second there, I saw her doing the math in her head.
I also have to keep in mind that my family tree is littered with guys who had a short shelf life. My father died at 70, and I think his dad died even earlier. My forefathers were all peasants from the old country and from what I hear died early of scurvy, rickets and consumption, all treated with medicinal doses of Guinness stout. The average life expectancy of a McKay, according to the web, is 68, and that takes into account women, who, as we all know, never die. The McKay family motto ought to be “Agimus, sed ut possedi,” which is Latin for “Thanks, but I got to go.”
A few months ago at work, the subject of longevity came up. For fun, I found one of those online death calculators on the web. I entered my physical information, including height and weight, and answered some questions about my personality: Optimistic? Pessimistic?
I hit “enter” and sat back for the verdict. The website cogitated for a moment, then offered sincere apologies. It said that I actually should have died four months earlier. In shock, I turned around to tell my co-workers that I had already passed my “sell by” date, and I got sad stares, like when you ask if you have something in your teeth and people wanted to tell you earlier but didn’t have the heart.
I hurriedly adjusted some of my answers, giving myself a slightly more optimistic outlook on life, ratcheting up the number of times I exercise and cutting the number of beers I consume. That bought me a few more years.
But it was a lie. It’s time to face the fact that if I actually get to 62 and manage to retire, I will be living on borrowed time. Any money people were putting toward a retirement gift should just be set aside so they can send nice flowers to the wake.
Maybe it’s time to buy a motorcycle, a big expensive one. And when it comes time to settle up, I’m going to ask the salesperson about a payment plan. After all, I’ve got almost five years to pay it off.