Randy and I fell in love with each other from hundreds of miles apart. We sent each other mix tapes and bared our souls in those play lists.
He gave me Radiohead, Paul Westerberg, and the Ramones. He gave me the fucking Pixies and Joe Strummer. Joe Strummer makes me want to pray, and I’m a non-believer.
21 years later and music is still part of our every day. Just this evening, we watched Talking Heads videos until Randy fell asleep. This is our version of grown up bed time stories.
Try to follow the next leap here, because it’s a big one.
I was thinking about my beginning with Randy, which made me think about the inevitable end. I struggle with thoughts of getting a little older.
I think about mortality way too fucking much.
When I was ten years old I clearly remember thinking “I can live my life all over again and I’ll only be 20 years old.” I remember thinking that 20 wasn’t really young or anything, but it wasn’t bad.
I remember the first time someone younger, but not much younger, than me made me feel old. I was 21 years old and in vocational school. One of the local high schools had a program where students would spend half a day in vocational school. We were at break and sitting with a group of high schoolers and they were talking about how tragic it would be to get pregnant too young. I agreed, no way was I ready to have a kid. One of the girls looked at me and said “why would you care? You’ve already lived your life.” I knew what she said was ridiculous, but I also felt the cold breeze of the end of my days ruffle my hair.
When I was 20 years old, I could reasonably expect to quadruple my years before considering my shelf life. That’s the same thing as being immortal. In fact, I would say that anyone who can at least double their years can call themselves immortal.
I’m 53 and don’t think it’s likely that I’ll live to 106. I mean, people do, but I don’t think I’ll be one of them. That ship has sailed. I’ve made mistakes. That could be the bourbon talking.
I guess, barring any unforeseen nastiness, given life span on both sides of my family, I can reasonably expect 85 years old.
That’s only 32 years away. I’m not living my life over again. That isn’t immortality. When I could double my age at 32, I was only looking at 64 years old. I’ll be 64 in 11 years.
This blog post is starting to feel like a word problem.
It’s weird, to dwell in a space where you have to acknowledge a hard stop is coming. I mean, not soon or anything, but this isn’t the immortality club where you are living a life that could still be doubled, tripled, or quadrupled.
Does it sound like I’m complaining?
I’m not. Not really. I like this part. I am more me now than I have been since I was very small. I like this age. I like who I am becoming. I am, however, aware that this space is different. I do have a shelf life.
It sucks when you get to the time in life when you know you have no time at all to fuck around, but enough years have gone by that you’re goddamn tired. Getting down to business means listening to creaking knees and fighting through daydreams of naps.
Still, there is a choice to be made. We can give in to creaking knees and take a lot of naps, or we can fill in the next 32 years as best we can. I vote for the latter. Either way, I know the sound track will continue to be incredible.