As I strained to shovel several inches of heavy, wet snow this afternoon, it occurred to me that as of this year, I am now a man of a certain age -- not to mention a man of a certain body-fat index, of a certain cholesterol level, of a certain stubbornness, of a certain level of sedentariness, of a certain shortage of child labor at home and, lastly, of a certain geographic location (to wit, Nebraska, instead of Florida) -- that makes me likely to take my last breath face down in a snow drift, freshly broken shovel lying beside me; my worthless dog, instead of bravely running for help, nosing through my pockets looking for the mid-shoveling-break chocolates he knows I put in there; and my daughter, returning home in the dark a couple of hours later assuming that lump in the snow is an aborted effort at a snow fort and not missing me until two hours after that when she notices no snoring coming from the recliner chair.