My boss says my methods make me a dinosaur, doomed to go extinct. Did those majestic reptiles pinch nostrils at the stench of tar pits, resigned to a final plunge? Maybe. But scholars assert the interval between T-Rexes and Stegosauruses exceeded the interval between T-Rexes and homo sapiens. I might last a little while longer. Many of my scales still shine, some of my teeth remain sharp. Yet the answer to the question just how much is enough— in the IRA, the 401K, the HSA— never made Velociraptors squirm and twist in bedsheets, spinning till three in the morning, exhausted before the day’s hunt even began. Perfect predators, they always chased after more, never missed a beat or tripped over red tape crisscrossing cretaceous jungles like giant spider webs spun by the state. Nor did they dwell on hypertension, high HDL, low testosterone numbers— or daydream being Hadrosaurs might make them happy, free from the pressure of a ravenous pack and worries about finding fresh prey. My wife frets: What will I do with all the time before me? I tell her there are 86,400 seconds in every day. We already have more than we know what to do with. Besides, a comet the size of Texas might crash into the planet. News warns of looming market crashes, draughts, dirty bombs, and oceans rising after being filled with garbage. Yesterday a study showed the average Ulugh Beg egg had a shell thinner than the average nest egg. Researchers said it was nothing short of a miracle any of the creatures made it to adulthood. And lately I wonder if the best goodbye might be without deliberation, random and unintended as a dream.
