A new study says that we could now end up living to the age of 130. The upbeat nature of these reports always amazes me as the final decades of such a long life could hardly be so much fun. I certainly wouldn't want to be sat on a commode sucking mint sweets for 30 years. Or would I? The "sitting down" bit holds a certain appeal, and indeed always has done. I've always had a fantasy of myself in one of those sanatoriums usually featured in war movies, where the brave soldier has lost his legs and plays his final scene being wheeled outside in a bath chair by a pretty nurse to "take the air." I can see myself sat in a bath chair at 130 years old, rug over my knees, wheezing like an old concertina, as I regale everyone with tales of Glastonbury festival 1996 ("Those were the days"). How happy I would be, hour after hour, day after day, reminiscing, pontificating; being "marvellous for my age," a "real character." Just before the pillow was placed gently -- and then not so gently -- over my face.
Trying to imagine the 130-year-old me is difficult, though perhaps not as difficult as it should be, owing to a certain lack of dynamism that has afflicted me my entire life. That's the point really. I am sure there are many 100-plus people out there who actually are marvellous for their age. I have known people well into their seventies who have more character and gumption than people a quarter of their years. However, we're talking about me here, and as I haven't been marvellous for any age I've been so far, the smart money says that I really shouldn't be counting on it.
Odds are that the 130-year-old me will end up as sulky, miserable and unmotivated as I've always been, only slightly nicer because the Alzheimer's has taken the edge off my more vitriolic insults and complaints ("The thing about you is ... Oh, I've forgotten"). I wouldn't let my standards slip, though. I would fight the good fight against long-johns and dentures until I'm at least 45. And 130-year-old me would have to get a boyfriend, some toy-boy stud in his nineties, to get all the other old ladies jealous, show that I've still got it, even if "it" is an adult-sized nappy that needed changing five hours ago. Frankly, it all sounds pretty good to me; though I'm not sure many of you would agree.
That's the problem with these reports. They sell it like you'll live for 130 years, but somehow magically look and feel 18. It's all about getting there, achieving this grand age and nothing to do with actual quality of life. They don't say anything about cancer, wrinkles, energy levels, the fact that several parts of your body have to be carried about in a wheelbarrow, your ungrateful 100-year-old progeny wishing that you would just die and leave them your semi, the medics who have taken to examining you to find out what's not wrong, the fact you've done anything you wanted to do before you were 80, and now spend all your time griping about how nobody stands up for you on the bus any more (forgetting that you haven't been on a bus for 45 years, or even stood up for the last 20). And your 130-year-old eyes can't see to read, your ears can't hear music, your mouth can't chew your food. And so on and so on. That's what all those over-eager health fanatics should remember as they chug down huge vitamin C tablets and jog about the parks with their iPods blasting, sweating and gasping and making the place look untidy.
What exactly are they so keen to live forever for?
Obviously, living a very long time beats living a very short time. We all fear death, all have a difficult time coming to terms with it, though actually my in-bred indolence is a bonus here as I have decided to view it as the Greatest Lie-In Of All (try it, it really takes the sting out of it). And one supposes it's a simple enough equation -- fear of death plus love of life equals a passionate desire to live for as long as possible. Hence all those iPod joggers, leaping up and punching the air at the news that they've got a fighting chance of "clocking up 130 on the old mortality-ometer" (I'd imagine people like that talk like that, though admittedly I have no proof).
Personally, I'm not sure I would like to live that long, though a little longer would be nice. And, yes, I am begging now. Judging by the amount of cigarettes some of us have put away, this "Living Forever" debate could turn into a bit of a non-issue.
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