There’s a long-known phenomenon among us humans—we know that everybody dies yet we can roll along, feeling exempt. That would be me. Sigh. I am, herewith, staring myself down. No more ignoring/forgetting/denying it. I am running out of time.

If you proceed with reading this—feel free to maintain your own exempt status, however unfounded your rational self knows that to be. I mean, this is about me, not you, so it doesn’t have to be a downer for you, right?

For me, the Covid stats are a good goose. People who are old old, are the most likely to die if we get it. And there’s the plain old math. I was born in 1933. It is now 2020. I am, therefore, 87 bloomin’ years old. That’s Old old. Even without a viral push, you don’t get many more years after 87.

Most people that age are already dead, and the ranks grow thinner every day. So many friends, (many of them younger) are gone. RBG, born in 1933, left last week. A chum in NYC, also 87, died in a dementia-care center. Of Covid. My mentor in public relations work tripped on a sidewalk, hit his head and, after weeks in a coma, died.