Trying to get some feeling back into my legs after a long week is pretty much the goal of every weekend.
The pins and needles were really pronounced as the week wore down on Friday, but luckily my beautiful wife had set me up with a prime massage appointment.
7 p.m. on a Friday.
Maria was the lucky lady who was tasked with the chore of getting the blood flowing in my sometimes useless legs.
She'd worked on me before so she knew that it's in the hip and don't touch the nerve endings that I call feet.
We started chatting.
About everything, really.
The Donald and the Pope.
The fact that February blows for people in their 50's.
Then she told me about the hearty stock of her family.
Her great-grandfather had lived to 99!
"And you know how he died?" She asked.
Usually on an open-ended question like that I'll chime in with something witty and brilliant.
I simply waited for it.
"He got ran over by a car."
I almost laughed.
Now...I'm not a total dope...I had just pictured it quickly...and it nearly struck me funny.
"He was helping them clear the parking lot after Midnight Mass on Christmas. He was an usher at the church. The driver never saw him."
What do you say to that?
99 and run down in the church parking lot on Christmas morning.
It sounds too crazy to be true.
If I wrote it in one of my stories people would think I was being a bit too loose with the truth.
"That's not actually a horrible end," I said. "My Dad was fond of saying that he wanted to live to 95 and be arrested on suspicion of sexual misconduct."
Dad loved that line.
And while the end result was horrible...
...that man died in the church parking lot...
...at Midnight Mass...
Not a bad deal.
I'd take it.
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