My friend Gary liked to remark that we observe the anniversary of our birth every year, but nobody celebrates their death day. Odd, Gary thought, because it comes every year, just like the birthday.
A carper would complain that we can't identify the day of our death but I wouldn't be so sure: what with sophisticated modern actuarial techniques, we are getting closer and closer. Thanks to my friend Margaret, I now have a handy dandy new device to estimate my "real age," which amounts to the same thing (link).
Let's see now: I'm 71, which would give me an average life expectancy of about 11 years, making my ETA the age of 82. But tweak it a bit. Smoke? No, quit 47 years ago. Happy? Yes indeed. Nice wife, some exercise, lots of roughage. Overweight? Well, pleasingly plump. Put it all together and it says here that I have a "real age" of 57.2, and a "real" ETA of 95.8.
Ninety-five? I've got to live to be 95? Oy, that may be the most depressing thing I've learned all day.
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