When I was in my 30s, given the arrogance of Youth, I thought all the good things in my life would last forever, the bad things would be gone as soon as they came, and I had an infinite amount of time left. As I said, arrogant.

Now, 40-plus years later, my attitude has changed more than a tad.

First, I’m full well aware bad things can come into everyone’s life (even mine) and stay a helluva lot longer than a day.

Second, I still like my life, but as opposed to when I was young, I appreciate it. And that’s not because everything’s better than it was — in fact, some things are a lot worse. But I’m keenly aware it’s the only life I’ve got. And my view of the future is there ain’t a whole lot of it left. So if I don’t appreciate every second I’ve got now, I’m not only an ingrate, but a moron as well.

Besides, I’ve got a lot to appreciate. I’ve got family and friends who either genuinely like me, or do a great job of faking it — each being as good as the other.

I live in the only place I want to, which is as beautiful and unspoiled as anywhere in the world. Dig it: People skimp, save, and plan all year just to spend one week where we live.

Finally, I’m healthy as the proverbial horse. A proverbial old horse, maybe, but a horse nonetheless.

In fact, one of my docs said I was the healthiest patient my age he’d ever had. I later found out he said the same thing to two of my friends, which was really kind of him, considering he had to lie to do it.

But as good as my life is and as much as I live in The Pink Cloud, there comes time when Reality rears its ugly head. And when it does, it speaks to me. This happened a few weeks ago, and here’s how it went.

“Face it, dawg,” it said, “you’re old.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said.

“But do you know how old?”

“I think so,” I said.

“Well, I don’t think so,” it said.

“So how old am I, Mr. Know-it-all?”

“Since you like metaphors, how’s about this one?” it said. “If your life is a B-Ball game, you’re in the fourth quarter, with maybe five minutes left on the clock, and with no time-outs.”

“That’s pretty harsh,” I said.

“Think so?” he said. “Well, it gets worse.”

“How?”

“It don’t matter if you’re winning or losing, cuz when the buzzer sounds, the game’s O-V-E-R…OVER!”

As soon as I heard that message, I did what I always do with Reality — I ignored it. But then I took the message to heart. And when I did, I realized I’d never even thought about my “arrangements,” much less taken any steps to put them in place.

An insightful aside: “Arrangements” is a lovely word and when I hear it I always think of flowers. But it has another, very different meaning, though they both have something in common. Each involves plantings, though one is floral and the other funereal. Lest you wonder, the arrangements I’m referring to are in the latter category.

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The spiritual vs. the physical

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While it’s a sorrowful duty to consider such a thing, it must be done. And when it comes to my duty, I do not shirk.

So once I knew what my duty was, what did I do?

First, as expected of me in such situations, I ignored it. But then assuming the role of Dutiful Dope, my head bloodied but unbowed, I charged into the fray.

The reality is sometime in the future I will depart this Vale of Tears, but only symbolically. Because when my symbolic self departs, it will leave my corporeal self behind. And while it’ll take no work to dispose of my symbolic self, the exact opposite is true of my mortal remains. And there’s the rub.

So what do I want done with them?

Well, to simplify my chore, I first decided what I didn’t want done, and that was easy. I didn’t want any big deal of any sort. No bombproof bronze casket as big (and expensive) as a Buick. No big schmear of a funeral with mournful organ music, huge sprays of flowers, and endless speeches about what a helluva guy I was. No vault and 21 gun salute. No Ozymandias-wannabe headstone. Matter of fact, if I could be planted in my backyard in my army surplus sleeping bag, I’d be all for it … if it was possible.

And guess what? It is!

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Not for the faint of heart

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Yep, the great state of New York allows peeps to be buried on their property. Of course there are regulations and restrictions, which I’m now in the process of finding out. But what I know so far is you don’t have to be embalmed and don’t even need a casket. You can, if you want, be buried wrapped in a plain white cotton sheet (though, frankly, I’d prefer purple satin).

They’re called Green Burials and they make perfect sense to me … but not to everyone. I found that out in a conversation with the big city, big hair girl herself — Leslie “Lollipop” Lamont, The Bensonhurst Bombshell.

“You’re gonna do what?” she all but shrieked.

I repeated what I’d said.

“Buried in your backyard?” she said. “Honestly?”

“True blue,” I said, “just like your eyes.”

Which was a flat-out lie, since her eyes owed their gorgeous shade, not to her genetics, but to her optician. But it never hurts to play along with the apparent willing suspension of disbelief.

“But, but, but,” she sputtered. “What about after your house gets sold?”

“What about it?” I said. “In case you didn’t know, I’ll be dead at the time. I won’t care.”

“Maybe you won’t,” she said, “but the new owners sure might.”

“A point to consider,” I said.

And consider it I did.

As for it being a problem, here’s what I concluded: It’ll be no problem at all.

Buying the house will be a self-selective process. In other words, whoever’s looking at it will know I, like North Elba’s favorite self-made martyr, am a-mouldering in my grave. And either it’s gonna be a problem, or it’s not.

If they want to buy the house but my grave is a problem, it’s no sweat, cuz they won’t buy it.

If they want to buy the house, and my grave is not a problem, it’s also no sweat, cuz they will buy it. And I assume they’ll be A-OK with their decision.

Plus, my backyard could offer something unique to the new homeowner.

It would happen only if the new owner has a boy around 12 or so, or a girl channeling young Lynda Peer. Because if that kid lives there, despite threats of discipline, disease, or dybbuks, I’d bet they won’t be able to stay away from my final resting place. And I’d further bet at some point, when mom and dad are gone for a good while, the kid is gonna get out a shovel and start digging.

After that, what?

Of course I don’t know, but if he or she is my kind of kid, they’re gonna take a souvenir — most likely my skull. Which they’ll clean off and hide, bringing it out to admire when they’re alone, or when entertaining, to share with their more discreet friends.

And how will I feel about being the star attraction in some kid’s private freak show?

I’m not much of a believer in an afterlife, so I doubt I’ll be feeling or seeing anything. But if I’m wrong and I’ll be observing the scene from on high (or more likely, from down below) I’ll guarantee you I will be tickled to death.