The way to go

I'm only at the dentist a few minutes last February when the dental hygienist asks me if I do any winter sports.

I tell her that Leo and Mike went ice fishing. I wax for a moment about standing on the frozen-solid lake and the sensation of walking over a surface that's usually not solid, but she shakes her head. She's not about to wax about anything I am saying to her.

I assume she's going to dismiss outdoor winter sports or fishing in general or just the cold weather.

Instead, she says, "I wouldn't want to go that way. It makes me nervous."

She mentions dogs whom she's heard have broken through the ice on a lake, even when it's meant to be totally frozen.

Then she says it again: "That's not how I want to go."

She may be right about falling through the ice to a frigid, numb death. It's probably a slow descent through hell, if hell were a frozen wasteland (and it might be; see Dante).

But all I can think is, "There's no way I would want to go."

In her defense, some ways do sound positively grisly. Drowning to death. Falling off a cruise ship into the deep blue sea. Being killed or buried alive -- that's probably not fun or easy.

Yet still: I really can't name any way I want to go.

No, actually, I think I'd like to stay.

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