Invite you to my funeral

 

One thing about gracefully-aging is acknowledging that my clock is ticking towards an eventual date with the Grim Reaper. As a former older colleague once said when I asked him how he was doing, and he replied:  I’m getting older and there’s nothing I can do about it.”  Recognizing this as my truth is being honest and transparent rather than some delusional thinking that I might live forever.

So, the clock towards the end of my life continues ticking, one second at a time, one minute at a time, one hour at a time, one day at a time and one year at a day. When it will all end, who know; I don’t for sure and never will. It’s a mystery of sorts having the potential to bring unwanted misery so it can best be handled, by me, with a little humor.

I recently had a chance to have such humor when talking to a younger man, young enough to be my son, who had just finished a landscaping project for me. He’s a joker of sorts, quick with his wit and words and very capable of beating me to the punch with a one-liner that gives both of us a roaring laugh.

He recently did this the other day and I had to one-up him with my own quick wit, and I tried and did deliver a clever response to what he had told me.

What was it that I told him?

I said, “Robert, I like you and you’re my man, so I’m going to invite you to my funeral.”

Pax Domini sit semper vobiscum