Hey there! You in the teflon spacesuit, chugging POM Wonderful while doing Pilates and eating goji berries by the heaping, slightly funky bowlful. You, yes you, are going to die. Maybe not now, maybe not as soon as me, but someday, eventually, the grim reaper is going to take you and put you in the ground. Case in point: former Playboy playmate Yvette Vickers, whose mummified(!) remains were found last week at her Benedict Canyon home after what might have been months. Poor sexy lady.

Via the LA Times:

“Yvette Vickers, an early Playboy playmate whose credits as a B-movie actress included such cult films as ‘Attack of the 50-Foot Woman’ and ‘Attack of the Giant Leeches,’ was found dead last week at her Benedict Canyon home. Her body appears to have gone undiscovered for months, police said.

Vickers, 82, had not been seen for a long time. A neighbor discovered her body in an upstairs room of her Westwanda Drive home on April 27. Its mummified state suggests she could have been dead for close to a year, police said.”

Close to a year? That really stinks. (Too soon?) This story hews a bit too close to the “fallen woman dies alone” narrative for my liking. Are we to believe not a single friend or family member called to check up on her during that time? It’s sort of terrifying to think that, when my time comes, my freewheeling life of drinking gin and doing the Charleston with various swell fellas might render me friendless and alone, with nary an offspring to close my eyes or make sure I’m wearing decent underwear when the paramedics come. Is this the fate that awaits me?

Poppycock! It’s 2011. Thanks in part to pioneers in awesomeness like Yvette Vickers, having tons of fun will most likely render me with more people to watch me die, not fewer. I also have no idea what Vickers’ specific circumstances were. But even if she did die a lonely bummer of a death, didn’t someone once say that “everyone dies alone?” I think I saw it on Gossip Girl or something. Anyway, there’s no such thing as a warm and fuzzy death. If there was, they’d call it something cuter, like “sleepy time” or “triumphant ascension to a cloud populated by naked Jon Hamms.” If I have to choose, I’d rather die with a life full of excitement behind me than have tons of angelic grandchildren to sing me to my rest. And even if beauty can’t save anyone from death (yet), it never hurts to leave behind a looker of a corpse.