A woman I knew worked like a fiend until she was 60, then took early retirement. She wanted to carry out a dream she had had all her life, to see the world, to take in everything she could. While lying on a beach in Greece, she felt sick enough to go back home, where she was found to be hosting a batch of tumors. She spent her last six months taking in the view from a hospital bed.
I am healthier than most people my age, but my wife is afraid I will wither away from lack of purpose if I stop working, even though I generally hate what I do and find most of my jobs worthless. Then along comes the story of Andy Rooney, now dead only a few weeks after his last rant on 60 Minutes, and I wonder if my wife doesn't have a point.
Moving seems to keep you alive, regardless of what the motion is. Being Andy Rooney won't kill you until you are 92; watching Andy Rooney too much could lay you out far sooner than that.
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