Why I Don't Want Any Perky Women Bothering Me in the Old Folks' Home

Death has been on my mind lately. Three reasons:

1) I've been reading "Gilead", which I saw just won this year's Pulitzer. The book's about an aging preacher in Iowa looking back on his life.
2) The Pope died. Although he was in his eighties, he looked to me to be, oh, about four hundred.
3) I turned thirty-five. If you consider the average lifespan of the American male, I'm nearing middle age.

I should rephrase the first sentence to be more specific as to my intention. I haven't been thinking about death as much as what my life is going to be like when I'm old. You know, old enough to be in an old folks' home. Old enough to be unable to care for myself sufficiently. I'm more worried about old age then post-death existence.

So someday I might go to the old folks' home. Retirement community. Whatever. When I read the Wall Street Journal on Fridays, I notice the "Weekend" section (that might not be the formal name of the section, but you know what I mean) devotes pages upon pages of space to "Rich Old People Real Estate". Condos in Florida. Golf courses. Gated (er, walled) neighborhoods. Pictures of thin, healthy retirees wearing visors and sweatsuits during the day, suitjackets and long skirts at night. Dancing. I suppose these people aren't quite at the drooling, can't get out of the wheelchair stage. Good for them. If you want to read a decent caricature of this lifestyle, by the way, read Franzen's The Corrections.

In any case, I think I can bank, with some degree of accuracy, on a pretty high chance of ending up in an old folks' home. Medical care is improving. I don't smoke or drink that much, although I should probably lose twenty pounds to avoid the high-risk group on the vice end. Still, since I may live a while, I would like to declare, at age thirty-five, my requests concerning old age:

1) If my wife is gone, I do NOT want a goddamn roommate in the old folk's home. Leave me alone, for Christ's sake. If I want to socialize, I'll leave the room. The narrator in Gilead says that sometimes the best cure for loneliness is solitude. I get that.
2) I do NOT want some perky twenty-four year old bugging me to play bingo or square dance or any other inane bullshit. I like to think that, after living for seventy years or so, I will not cede my dignity to arts and crafts.
3) I need access to books. I understand that if I keep my mind in shape I can keep reading well after my body starts to break down (my body's already breaking down, as far as I'm concerned). If I lose a bit of memory, that's ok, because I'll get to read the same book twice, I figure, as if I've read it the first time. If I can't read, I want books on tape. If those aren't available, maybe Miss Perky can read to me. I hear Milton's daughters read to him. They even took his dictation, I think.
4) I don't expect to live with my kids. Of course I want to see them, but I'm not going to drag them down with my deterioration as long as I can help it. If they do want to take me out of the building, I humbly request that they not drag me around to Disneyworld or wherever in a wheelchair. I don't want to go to restaurants, either. Esp. after I'm shitting my pants.

I'm really kind of looking forward to getting old, as long, as I mentioned earlier, I can do it with dignity. All I ask is that the recreational staff at my future old folks home not assume that dragging me out of my room to watch grade school kids sing Christmas carols is Whats Best For Me. And keep me away from Disneyworld in the wheelchair. Thank you.