Most days it's an abstract thought, but there are times when I truly understand and embrace one of nature's great truths: Married people live longer.
OK, let's rephrase that: Married men probably live longer. Women, married or not, were most likely going to be just fine. Because, frankly, when was the last time you heard of a woman falling off the roof of a house because she was using a gas grill as a step ladder? Waiting, waiting ...
I have long accepted the fact that the only thing standing -- sometimes literally -- between me and an untimely and particularly goofy end is the Lovely Mrs. Smith. After all, who doesn't need the steady, soft voice of reason tempering his more kinetic thoughts and impulses? Or explaining that, yes, it's probably more than just a good idea to flip the circuit breaker before fiddling with those wires.
But that's really bush league stuff. I mean, most of us, if we took the time to step back and reasonably consider our options (and what fun is that?), would acknowledge that trying to kill what might be a poisonous snake with a golf club is probably a bad idea. Seriously, when was the last time you hit anything particularly well with a 1-iron?
The key to the whole thing isn't being the adult in the room. Rather, it's introducing that critical element of proportion into any discussion. Or rant. But in the interest of keeping this positive, discussion.
You see, my problem in this whole thing is that I am equal parts optimistic and obtuse. In my world (and yes, the sky is a lovely color here), everything is going to work out just fine, mostly because I didn't really notice there was a problem in the first place.
In my world, cars have a potential engine problem suppressor on the dash (some people refer to it as the volume button on the radio, so, apparently it serves two purposes), expiration dates are really just suggestions and it's probably just a sprain, feeling will return shortly. No reason to trouble the doctor.
This is fine, to a point. And that point is typically where the Lovely Mrs. Smith comes in.
Now, in my defense, the LMS has a tiny little tendency to move just as briskly toward that opposite, negative reaction as I do toward the positive one. Most people would see a Shooting Star and think how dramatic it looks. She has a tendency to wonder if it's actually a gigantic asteroid about to slam into the planet, ending life as we know it. And if there's time for a pedicure first.
But that introduction of proportion is just the sort of leavening often needed to make sure my flights of fancy actually do make it to the runway. Wheels-side down.
So, when I decide, in the interest of better health, I'm going to cut out red meat, no, become a vegetarian, no, heck, a vegan!, thankfully someone steps in and suggests that, maybe I should consider just having a salad and seeing where that takes me.
And when I decide the next great adventure is going to be kayaking the Green River, someone proposes that, since kayaking involves actually being in a boat on the water, I might consider learning to swim. And increasingly that life insurance policy just a tad.
And when I decide that brown mark on the side of my face is just a "wisdom spot," and comes with the mileage, baby, someone sort of insists that I go in and have it looked at.
Which explains why I'm writing this with a slowly-healing (albeit it not very big) hole on the right side of my head where a pre-cancerous lesion used to be?
Driving that point home, of course, was the discussion with the doctor who actually froze the offending cells off my cheek. It started with, "so how long has that been there?" a legitimate question that was met with what can best be described as a blank stare.
Frankly, I probably wasn't the person to ask that question, since just because it's my face doesn't mean I paid any attention to it.
Yep, every now and then, I truly understand why married people live longer. And every now and then, I even remember to be thankful for that.
GARY SMITH IS A RECOVERING JOURNALIST LIVING IN ROGERS.
Commentary on 09/25/2014