A memory1: It's Election Night, 1980. I've stayed up late with my parents watching the returns on TV, but I am in third grade and have to go to bed before the final results are in.
I fall asleep. My dad wakes me up.
"Son. Reagan won the election."
"And he'll be president for four years?"
"Yes."
"That means the next election I'll be ..."
"Eleven years old."
And I remember thinking: That's crazy. I'll never be 11 years old!
I made it to 11. And a little further. Reader, today I am 50 years old.
You've probably heard this story before, but I'm telling it again: I truly did not expect to get to today. Not out of any generalized disbelief in the future -- the attitude I had when I was seven -- but because I spent so much of my 40s in disastrous health.
I'll skip the details. Suffice it to say, there was one night during this terrible period when my wife came in the bedroom to find me sleeping peacefully -- such a rarity, she quietly checked to make sure I was actually still alive.
So when the pandemic started, I figured that was it. If my body didn't get me through its own means, the virus surely would. I was full of comorbidities.
And while things are far from perfect (I am still broken and overweight, and probably always will be) my health is now much improved. Knock on wood.
Which leaves me in a weird position. Having spent so much time and energy obsessing about my inevitable death — ending many days with a softly murmured message to my wife: “I hope you have a good life. Be sure our son knows I loved him” — what do I do with the rest of my time now that I'm ... still alive?
Folks: I honestly don't know. But I hope my 50s are better than my 40s. There’s still time to do good work and have good experiences, right?
I hope so.
Forgive the self-indulgence. Back to broader ideas next week.
Happy birthday. You’ve done well.
Joel, in my tribe we say, “may you live to 120.” That never sounded very appealing to me, so I’ll just say happy birthday, and here’s to an unspecified many more!