It dawned on me today that I still might not live to be 104. I mean, it's barely possible that I'm already on the downhill slope, the second half, past the seventh inning stretch. Maybe more than barely possible. Maybe partially clothed.

Still, I've come through this week with a new appreciation for the possibility of a future. Before I got scoped Tuesday, I was reluctant to make any long-range plans. I wasn't renewing any magazine subscriptions. Now I guess I can go ahead and buy new shoes to replace the threadbare ones I've been wearing.

I really thought I was on the short-timer list, before I got a good report from the doctor. It got so bad that earlier this year, when the credit card company called to offer me hospitalization insurance (at inflated credit card rates, of course), I actually asked myself if I shouldn't go ahead and buy it. It would have made my minimum payment for me if I got sick. (I didn't fall for the sales pitch, though.)

For a long time I haven't had any definite plans for the future, except a vague sense that I should be putting my affairs in order. Just in case, you know. It isn't a major project, because I don't own a lot that I'd have to bequeath. But I probably should label all the photos in my albums, and shred the bad poetry I wrote in college. No use leaving any evidence behind.

Is this morbid? I'm not exactly obsessed with the prospect of my own death, and I haven't felt any real fear of ceasing to exist. Still, it's a relief to know that I have a better chance than I thought to stick around for a while. Or I could walk in front of a bus tomorrow. Life's too short to worry about that, though. Heh.

What I'm getting at is that I have a better attitude about everything, now, I think. About a lot of things, anyway. I'm probably going to run the vacuum over my formerly white carpet some day soon, and clear away some of the cobwebs. I might actually take that gardening class next semester. And I'm thinking about buying the leather recliner I've been wanting for my living room.

That's not exactly the spiritual redemption my reprieve warrants, but I feel that, too. I just don't know how to express it. (I've been trying for several paragraphs now, and it just isn't working out.) I'm a less gloomy person than I was a week ago. But I don't think anyone will notice but me.

Despite the rosy outlook, I felt my age today. I sat for several hours in the chilly San Francisco air last night, and I got home awfully late. Then today I had to force myself out of the lounge chair and into the garden. I couldn't figure out whether I was sweating because of the heat, and it wasn't all that hot, or the work I was doing pulling weeds, which wasn't all that vigorous. Maybe I'm just as old as I thought I was.