It Wasn't The Planes That Got Him

I have often said that when I die, I don't want a lot of mystery surrounding my passing. I expect that it won't take Quincy to discover what took me down. As a matter of fact, if it would facilitate things, I am willing to carry the address of the nearest In 'n' Out burger franchise in my wallet for that moment when I cease to be. Again, I don't think a call to any of the various CSI branches will be necessary. Death by cheeseburger: animal style.
Of course, this flies directly in the face of my other deep-seated obsession. Why would I keep lacing up my shoes to go out running if I am really that intent on committing hami-kiri? It's a very deep-seated denial, I suppose. There's a whole lot of bargaining going on in my head on any given day. "If I put bacon on that, I'll just have to make sure and get that extra mile in tomorrow," and so on. The whole idea is never to become so incapacitated by food that by the next morning I am unable to get out on the streets again.
A study published on Monday shows middle-aged members of a runner's club were half as likely to die over a twenty-year period as people who did not run. Running reduced the risk not only of heart disease, but of cancer and neurological diseases such as Alzheimer's, researchers found. For the purposes of my longevity, I would put my name on the "runners" list, but for the sake of my taste buds, I fall squarely on the Super Size column. I know that the older I get, the harder it becomes to rationalize all of these little quirks. I understand that eventually something has to give. So there are more salads in my future, I suppose so that I will continue to have one.