It's your turn next, Mr A

My father died in June of a cerebral haemorrhage, three months after his 72nd birthday. My 72nd birthday was in June, so I figured that if I could live past the end of August, I was into extra time. And here I still am! Cheating the Grim Reaper. Every day a bonus. I can't tell you good I feel about this.
Or did, till last night.
My father had two children by his first marriage, Dennis and Doreen. Dennis is deceased, but Doreen (who has lived in Canada this last fifty years or so) is still going strong. She called me last night and we had a good chat about the price of plums, etc. And then, a propos of I know not what, mentioned that Dennis had had Alzheimer's. So, dammit, even if I avoid a stroke, I have gagadom to look forward to.
When working out which deal I should take for my pension, I investigated the longevity on both sides of my family, and discovered that the women all lived into their late eighties or early nineties, whereas the men mostly popped their clogs in their seventies.
So, methinks, it is time I developed my feminine side. At least that way I might give myself a few more years to exercise the corkscrew, if not the armadillo. But, no dirty cracks, this decision has nothing to do with the fact that I now wear pink undies. Damn, I just don't know how that red towel got in with the whites...