Sitting Will Kill You

I’m going to live to 150. I figured out all the statistics and since I am a certified doctor on Twitter and Facebook I feel qualified to say this.

A few weeks ago, I was wearing my lab coat. Someone started asking me about a pain in his shoulder.

I told him specifically what he should do and he said, “Thank you” and he walked off, rubbing his shoulder but maybe a little more hopeful. Claudia had to run after him to explain I was not a doctor.

But what does she know? Don’t ruin people’s hopes!

One thing I know. I have every reason to believe I will live to 150 years. Maybe more. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

First off, basic use of statistics. I’ve been alive 17,437 days as I write this. On all of those days I have never died. Not once!

So basic statistics: I’m probably never going to die. Just like most people with stable salaries are doing good jobs that will never be eliminated [not].

Second, most deaths can be traced back to specific causes. And if you eliminate those causes, then for each cause they know, on average, how many extra years you will live.

Like, the average non-smoker lives 6.5 years longer than the average smoker.

And obsessive worrying can take…16 years off of your life. WHOAH!

[see graphic for all the things that can extend your life].

And they extend your quality of life. If you have lung cancer or (horrors) lip cancer, then your quality of life is less than people who don’t have those cancers.

So why choose to die at age 150?

Well, nobody knows what happens before or after this tiny glimmer of light we see. Underneath this tiny star at the outer rim of our galaxy.

Right now I’m in a coffee shop. Four policemen are arguing with each other whether or not to put chai in their espresso. The counterwoman complains to her boss he never compliments her. 80s music is playing. Depeche Mode “Master and Servant”.

The man next to me is telling his mistress that he loves her. A man is sweeping outside. A photograph of a woman from the 1920s is hanging on the wall, maybe the owner’s grandmother. A mural of the coffee shop is spread out next to the menu, chalked on a giant black board with intricate chalk drawings of the drinks.

The woman cop is beautiful. If I wasn’t married I’d walk up to her this second and ask her to marry me. Or I’d steal the gun from her holster while she debates if she should do chai or not and I’d aim straight at her face and then just laugh and give it back to her. I like to joke around.

Not every day is wonderful. Last night I had a bad moment. But this moment is pretty amazing. And maybe the next and the next.

[Now “Sweet Dreams” is playing. All 80s, all the time.]

And maybe it’s too early to predict. But at age 150 I’d like to explore the next moment in a new way. Just not on this planet. Or in this universe. Or with this brain. Who knows?

Live long and prosper.

Sitting will kill you

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