Numbers Game

"Recently, I've become aware that there are fewer days ahead than there are behind."

- Jean-Luc Picard

Back in December, I pontificated on what my 42nd birthday meant to me at the time. Turns out those were more immediate thoughts. During the intervening month-and-half since that birthday, a more long-term state of mind has come to the fore. Thoughts of life and of death, time behind and time ahead, have been been swirling in my mind of late. At this point, it is unclear if they are temporary, or if they're here to stay, perhaps needing to be dislodged by some sort of life-decisions?

My father died aged 52. I was 21 at the time, and remember -- during those hazy days between his death and the flurry of visitation and funereal proceedings -- that would give me another 31 years, if I were to make it to his age before life ended. It's one of those things we can't help but do, comparing ourselves to our parents, in all our -- and their -- facets. Or is it just me? At any rate, the man who helped give me life was dead at a certain age, so that became my mental fuel tank of life.

Over the years, the scariness of that age waxed and waned. In some respects, I'd convinced myself that age is just a number. It doesn't really mean anything, at least, not everything. And yet, in my personal life, I'm not good at saving money. 'Why bother?' I often think, 'I probably won't be around to enjoy it later. I'll be 52 and done. No retirement age here.' I often joke that, with that mentality, I'll likely end up old and penniless. For better or worse, I dwell on things, and a possible expiration date is one of them.

We like numbers, or at least numbers we've deemed significant. We'll make a big deal about something every ten years, or twenty, or twenty-five. Decades, quarter-centuries, and all that. If you haven't thought of it by now, 42 is ten from 52. That gave me a gulp this past December, and has ever since. I remember early 2008 very well. To say that it seems like yesterday would be a lie, but the time between now and then certainly feels as though it's gone by quickly. What does that mean for the next ten years?

So, here I am wallowing in a self-imposed death countdown, which begs the (internal) question: What do I do with the time remaining? Should I travel more? See the world (or at least more of the United States)? Keep doing politics, or look for something else to do with my time (back-to-school, more leisure/social activities)? Where do we go from here?

Part of all this is the possibility that this angst is nothing more than a midlife crisis, couched in a fever of parental death distress. Part of it is also seeing friends and loved ones picking-up and moving away to do different things with their lives. For a long time I've both admired and resisted such notions. I've been comfortable, but then that begs the question: Is comfortability always a good thing? How do you tell when it is, or when you should push yourself more, open yourself up to possibilities?

The clock is ticking, for all of us, of course, but I'm selfishly considering myself at the moment. My paternal grandfather, Oscar, died when he was 53. He passed away young enough that I never met him. Dad died at 52. The odds aren't looking good. Last year I started eating better and exercising more, losing over 70 pounds in the process, so that's good, right? Except, I'd done it twice before since I was 18. The pounds eventually came back, causing who knows how many long-term issues?

53, 52, 10, they're all numbers and, in a sense, numbers are meaningless. In another sense, they're terribly important. We use numbers to measure, to build things, to calculate what we earn and, of course, to mark time. Numbers can be significant. 52 is a significant number for me. So, now, is 10. The irony is that I could die today or tomorrow. Nothing is guaranteed. I can say with less less self-assurance , however, that I could die twelve years from now. That future feels far less probable, like it exists in a nebulous obstruction I cannot see beyond.