Age is relative. And not just in the Einsteinian astronaut-traveling-at-near-light-speed-returns-home-to-find-his-twin-brother-is-now-his-grandpa way. For example, given predicted advances in robotics and super glue, I’m probably only one-third of the way through a typical lifespan (and only one-fifth if you consider my cryogenically pampered head separately, which you should, as it will be separated from my torso). Yet, I’m feeling a tad old at the moment. And not just because the hooligans in the office spun some Run DMC on my Victrola.
No, I’m feeling a skosh creaky because in just a few short days (because days seem shorter as you age) I’m heading back home for my 20-year high school reunion.
Twenty years. Where did the time go? Well, there was college (four years), job hunt (six months), first job (two years), second job (eight years), marriage (seven years), third job (one year), self-employment (three years), kids (almost three years) and the fourth job (one year). As you can see, I’ve crammed almost thirty years of actual living into the past twenty years. Which would be impressive if some of those years had been spent overthrowing oppressive tyrants (Oprah), educating the unlearned (Bob Clarkson in the second pew) or scaling mountains to impress the ladies. As opposed to whiling away the time at jobs one, two, three and four.
Sure, I’ve still got a couple of years before I hit 40, but I’m ready to start my midlife crisis now. Unfortunately, I cannot afford a sports car, glute implants or even a glute implant simulation app for my iPhone. And, of course, I know deep down that, while these things might make me feel more immature, none would actually make me feel younger. Although I’m willing to test that assumption from behind the wheel of a Cayman S. That’s a Porsche for you Prius drivers out there.
In the scope of eternity, 38 years is a giant bucket of nothing. In fact, God makes a point of making a point about the brevity of human existence many times throughout the Old, New and New & Improved with Whitening DazzlePower Testaments. Our lives are but a breath. A vapor. Shorter than Jm J. Bullock’s vowel-free first name (see Haggai 2:12). We really are dust in the wind. Just a drop of water in an endless sea. You sing the rest.
And that, I suppose, is why I’m feeling a pang of bummerness encroaching upon my otherwise two-ticks-north-of-melancholy disposition. Life is short. And my list of accomplishments – ones that actually matter – feels even shorter. Probably because they all stand under three feet tall and soil themselves.
In the olden days of the early 90s, none of this would have mattered with respect to a reunion. As long as you had moved away (as I did), you could return and pretty much spin any kind of tale you’d like about your life. Sure, telling folks you’re now a successful neuroveterinarian who even more successfully performed the first monkey-dolphin brain transplant would technically be a lie. Which would technically be a sin. Which would technically be frown upon by the publishers of this column. Which is why I recommend telling this story via dolphin chirps. It adds authenticity.
Of course, this is 2010. And approximately 45% of my graduating class of 700 is on Facebook. And 45% of that 45% are my friends. And seeing as how I didn’t have the foresight to construct the myth of Dr. Jason Fox, Neurovet from the get-go on Facebook, I’m pretty much stuck with the truth. Which includes my hairline.
Not that I expect most of classmates to have dramatically different histories than my own. But it would have been nice to have checked a few non-family-related items off my list in the last 20 years. Granted, I lost that list 17 years ago and can’t remember what was on it. Which is an important lesson for today’s youth: If you’re going to make a bucket list, don’t write it on an actual bucket. But if you do write it on an actual bucket, do not loan that bucket to your neighbor so he can was his car. Because he’ll be the one who ends up on stage with Def Leppard instead of you.
On the bright side, unlike some attendees who peaked in high school, I have not even come close to peaking. Or even Peking. And really, that’s okay. Because now my current list of accomplishments will be around to see the new stuff they’re (sadly literal) old man pulls off. I just need to find me some dolphins.