Most people start enjoying golf at age 39.5, so you’ll have to put up with enjoying it for about six months before you enter your death decade.
What if you don’t find the meaning of life until you’re in your 50s? I can tell you what it is, but the fun is finding out for yourself. Hint: It’s not living hedonistically until you flame out in your 40s.
I’m 64, and I’m not ready to call it quits yet. If I am ever diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, in the first lucid moment I’ll kiss a train. But as long as I can endure the constant pain of arthritis in my knees (getting old is not for sissies) and continue doing things I enjoy I think I’ll stick around. Maybe I’ll just get new knees and kind of start over. If you think you’ll be washed up by your fifties, I feel sorry for you.
Later. I’ve got things to do.
In 5…4…3…2… wait, the phone’s ringing.
DAMN! Another deadline missed. Now I’ll have to reschedule.
Hmmm. I seem to have a suspicious-looking blank spot in my daybook for Tuesday next…
Please enlighten us all, Mr. Budda! 
For me, the meaning of life is to do things that I find fun while obeying the Golden Rule. I don’t need to live to an old age to decide that one. Well, actually there is no “meaning of life”. Once you die, you will return to the ground and become nothing more.
I’ve outlived my youthful expectations and made it to the ripe old age of 38. I figure I can keep things going another 20 years easily barring some disabling accident. When it becomes clear that I will no longer be able to take care of myself without constant assistance I’m going to take the early exit plan. It’s quality of life, not quantity. So as long as I’m having a good time I’ll stick around. If I start to take better care of myself I could live a hell of a long time.
On a similiar vein, as my mom once put it, “Sure, I could quit smoking and live 10 years longer. But that’s 10 more years I have to live without a cigarette! How is that an incentive?!”
Asleep in a warm, cozy bed on a cold winter night–with my family and loved ones near and a life of success, riches, and contentment behind me–at the age of 98, possibly 99.
I wish I had the time to feel sorry for you and your pathetic whining, but I’m too busy living.
I’m 61, and since I was “40 to 50,” I’ve done things that I never thought I’d ever do. This past summer I spent 24 days hiking through the U.S. Southwest, one of the most visually amazing areas on this planet. I had absolutely no experience doing this, and am not in peak condition, but I didn’t let that stop me. I even survived a gruelling 9.5-hour hike through Horseshoe Canyon, in 123-degree heat.
And my partner and I recently celebrated our 19th anniversary, something I NEVER thought would happen.
So when do I plan to die? I know I’ll die someday, but I refuse to “plan” when or how to do it.
I want to die on safari in Kenya in my 80s. Preferably while I’m totally loaded, and wearing a bitchin’ outfit.
If I manage to avoid getting gay-bashed to death, or getting skin cancer, or dying in a freak bookshelf accident, I’ll probably live and be sharp a really long time, since all of my grandparents died in or have lived into their 80s with faculties intact.
I am almost completely sure I will die by my own hand; only the circumstances are variable. I know, I know, self-fulfilling prophecy and all that. But I’m in the “quality, not quanity” camp.
I’m bipolar, and though my condition is well-controlled with medication, my brother was not so lucky, and he killed himself last year. I have much more to live for than he did, by most any standard, but I know the soul-searing agony of uncontrolled depression.
Furthermore, I have another brother who just had kidney cancer diagnosed at the age of 48; it’s metastasized to his lungs and bones and is, realistically, untreatable. I wouldn’t be the least surprised if he decided to exit on his own terms, before it became unbearable. I’ve told my partner before, and recently reiterated in light of my brother’s cancer, that if I’m ever faced with a protracted terminal illness or some physical disablement that makes life intolerable, I’m checking out. He doesn’t want to hear it, but there it is.
Of course that should be “quantity.”
Well, I’m the type of person that likes to take care of the “details” no matter what I do. Death doesn’t scare me, as long as it is painless. There is nothing wrong with giving the grim reaper a little thought.
Take a look at the Wikipedia article on life expectancy: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Life_expectancy#Timeline_for_humans . It shows that throughout most of human history, the average human lifespan is much less than 40-50 years of age. I will still be living a full life by many standards, including mine.
I also share the same view as Licentious Ectomorph; If I get terminally ill or physically disabled, I want the doctor to pull the plug.
Right now, I’m feeling the 140-150 age range, but I’m still in my early 20’s and expecting to live forever. Even so, I don’t want to imagine a world without me in it. It’s just too horrible. I’d like to feel as if every decade is my golden age, and that I am always on the brink of really finding out what my life is about.
Hey, I was just having a conversation about the great party I’m going to have when I find out I’m on short time. Why wait for the wake when you can enjoy it?!
I ain’t ready yet, though. Somehow I doubt I’ll live to be really old, but that’s okay. I just don’t want to check out while I’m still having fun.
Oh, and for the youngsters who think they’re done by their forties - this is my last eighteen months -
I saw my favorite band twice, both times from the front barricades.
I started doing off-site presentations for the zoo and I really enjoy it.
I ride my bike all over and walk for miles.
I’ve found the greatest coffee shop, a place that has poetry nights, jam nights, discussion groups and the nicest friends in the world. Bonus - it’s next door to the zoo!
I joined a band! It’s an Alice Cooper tribute and I’m one of the actresses. I play the Executioner and a couple of other parts.
I fell in love.
So I guess it’s not all over yet! Oh, and I’m 46.
I figure it is time to go if I can’t take care of the basic things (breathing, peeing, eating-even if eating is just an ensure with a curly straw) by myself. My family shouldn’t have to help me wipe my ass or check to make sure my breathing machine is still working. I figure that wont even begin to be an issue until 75 or 80, though I am overweight so I suppose it could be earlier than that. I certianly don’t think I want to check out before I have hit the point where you get to do what you want with your life. I am 24 right now and I know that I have at the very least another 25 years of working ahead of me, probably more than that, before I can retire. Then I can wake up in the morning or early afternoon to do whatever I wish. I can travel, I can take up new hobbies, spend time with my family on their schedules without having to worry about going to work. Why the hell would I want to leave before that?
Either sometime between now and the next century in a car crash or similar…
or over age 100. My family is crazy but we got those long-lasting genes down pat!