Probably, I will not die of natural causes.

Then, again, falling on my face does seem to come naturally, these days, so I may have to rethink this.

Whatever, I only look like a 9-year-old who went rump over teakettle over her handlebars, because of the bruises, swelling and road rash on my face; in fact, I tripped over a hose while trying to convince Harley (cat) he needed to come in because he was likely to get his butt whooped if he stayed out all night.

He paid me no mind, even as I crashed and burned on the driveway, called him a very rude name and crawled into the house.

The cat is an ingrate.

When I showed up a day later at the antiques mall where I work a half a dozen days a month, it was without makeup and looking like Rocky.

Three reactions: "My god, what happened?!"; "Don't tell me Himself is batting you around again?" (this in jest, because nothing could be further from the realm of possibility); and a look that lasted a little too long and thought better about asking, in case someone really had batted me around.

After explaining my wounds for the 10th time, I pinned a note to my shirt: "It was dark, a hose was involved, it's the cat's fault."

Here's the thing: The older I get, the more prone to accidents I am and the more I try to convince myself I'm just having an off day, the more in denial I get about the news that there are some things I should be giving up - especially now that I have received, on the same day, a letter saying I'd be eligible for Medicare in a few months and a notice from a funeral home announcing a real deal on prepaid burial services.

"Offer expires in 30 days."

It seems a mean twist of fate that just when we get our acts together, when we stop giving a mousie's patootie about what other people think or expect of us, when we finally claim the right to say "no" when "no!" is what our insides are screaming, our bodies go "nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah!" and commence falling apart, even as we are successfully conquering a five-star sudoku puzzle.

I've decided to roll with it, the fact that I just can't do things the way I could 10 years ago. And while I agree there's truth to the adage "you're only as old as you feel," I'm thinking that speaks more to a state of mind than of body.

I am not, starting today, going to wander around our undulating property after dark wearing flip-flops (rubbah slippah, if you hail from Hawaii) in hopes of convincing an uncooperative cat to come inside. If he's a no-show, then he is, and I will patch up his sorry butt in the morning.

I vow not, from here on out, to climb to the tops of wobbly ladders in pursuit of a spider's web or a wasp in the house, and if someone else is bothered by it, he can do the honors. There is no dishonor in hiring a cleaning service, I'm in the process of convincing myself, and I'm letting go of my stubbornness to do so.

I'm going to start celebrating my age and all the good stuff that comes with it. Maybe that's what they mean (who are "they" anyway?) by aging gracefully.

I would rather read a book than learn to Twitter, and I'm admitting it. Don't care what's "in" in shoe wear, because my feet aren't happy in pointy shoes with 4-inch heels, and I'm at an age where comfort is reward enough.

This doesn't mean my orthopedic shoes won't be red, or the books I read won't be edgy, and for Christmas, this year, I will ask Santa for a helmet, in case I need to venture out at night.

One with orange flames and a night light - for those times when I just can't help myself.

* Lynne Horner is a former Maui News features editor and writer who now lives in Springfield, Ore. Her "Second Thoughts" column appears every Tuesday. Send e-mail to her at lynnenhorner@yahoo.com.