Before.
I had a heck of a time making it to my connecting flight at Charlotte International Airport earlier today. I'd get into a good stride for ten feet or so only to be cut off by a series of elderly people casually shuffling around in circles.
It was somewhat endearing. They dragged their little suitcases on wheels behind them, obstructing forward progress because they were distracted by food they couldn't digest properly and their youth passing by, or whatever sends them off on reveries.
Please don't misunderstand; I love the elderly. I'm one of those rare chicks who can take a knee and listen to a good story from those with more experience (and hopefully more wisdom) than she has. I even fantasize about some older actors the way Umberto Eco waxed poetic about Granita.
It's just that watching them move so slowly, and at times so painfully, got me thinking that maybe, just maybe, I would like to be put down (humanely, like they do with horses) if I ever got to be that slow or physically dysfunctional.
What fun would it be to reach 180 if I couldn't hurl cats across the room for fear of fracturing fragile, osteoporotic bones?
I know what some of you are thinking. "Frankie, you'll probably be able to transfer your brain into a robot body in the near future." I hate robots, and am preparing for the inevitable robot rebellion. Transfer my brain into a potentially easily-hacked robot body? No thanks.
After.
If science fails me, and reaching 180 in a healthy human body that can still enjoy sensual delights turns out to be impractical, I'd like to make it to what remains of the Who's age and snag a major gig like they did with the Superbowl.
Yeah, watching The Who perform for the halftime show last February was heartbreaking, cringe-inducing, and not a little ironic. But then, they got to rock out to millions with an all-expense paid trip to one of the biggest parties in 'Murica. They're clearly doing something right.
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