The nurse asked me if I had a living will. “Yes, I do.”

“Did you bring it with you?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I’m only here to have my teeth cleaned. I didn’t really think I’d need it.”

I could see if I was having a filling, or a wisdom tooth pulled, but a cleaning? Was it really that life threatening?

There was much consternation behind the counter. Could they proceed at all without the living will? Do I really look that old? Is it that annoying teenager who always gives me the Senior Discount down at the Shop and Spend on Tuesdays a character witness? I want to tell her she’s just given me a 15-percent discount for being prematurely gray. But I just take it and shut up.

I can’t even remember what the provisions of my living will are. Did I tell Sue to pull the plug the day I couldn’t remember what’s in my living will, or did I tell her to keep me alive until I was smaller than the tubes coming out of me?

I can’t even remember where it is. Where do you put something like that? On the refrigerator door? In my home office? I can’t find the phone bill in my home office. Or the phone. I don’t need a living will, I need a live-in filing clerk.