Cadged from the internet
TG came at me several days ago with a fun fact. He'd heard it on the radio.
The average person lives four thousand weeks, he said.
I let that sink in. Just for a moment. Then:
Huh? I said. I mean, I was thinking about how fast a week goes by.
BOOM! It's Monday. Sleep a little, walk a little, read a little, take a picture or two, text some friends or the kids, do some laundry, load the dishwasher, go to church, and BOOM! It's Monday again.
A week.
On a never-ending repeat cycle.
Only four thousand of those? A ten-year-old has already lived more than five hundred of them!
I whipped out my phone, located the calculator, and attempted to do some nitty-gritty math.
Finding I could not do it that way, I consulted the internet.
Are you ready for this?
Not counting the nine months I was in the womb (I was born on the very day I was due, owing to the fact that I'm nothing if not punctual), I have already lived three thousand, four hundred and sixty-nine weeks.
Of four thousand.
Siblings. No rivalry ... yet. Photo courtesy Andrew Weber
That's IF I make it to age seventy-seven, and you know as well as I do that there is no guarantee of that.
Of course I could go beyond age seventy-seven, and I know we are all hoping that I do. Aren't we?
And not for nothing but here are the balance of my grimtastic statistics. I dare you to put in your own birthday.
Why oh why do you devote so much of your wee tired pirate brain to deliberating on such things, you may be asking.
Because as I write, Baby Guy is already four days old. Almost one week!
I haven't even met him yet. And already I am wondering -- just out of curiosity -- if I will live to see him graduate from high school.
Unless he turns out to be a child prodigy, that's about nine hundred twenty-six weeks from now. Class of 2041. I will be eighty-four years old.
Long past threescore and ten and well past threescore and seventeen.
Let's face it: this may all be moot.
One thing we know is that we don't know. How many more weeks we have to live, that is.
Some of us may make it to age one hundred. It's not unheard of.
That's five thousand, two hundred weeks (ezpz).
I'd better check and see if Mom has ordered my cap and gown ... Photo courtesy Andrew Weber
But if best-case likely scenario is that we have a mere four thousand weeks?
And most of them are already gone with the wind?
I'd better go get a load of laundry started.
And that is all for now.
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Happy Monday
