When I reconnect with someone from my youth, my first thought is “How cool. They’re still alive.”
This leads to a couple of questions:
One: Just how old do I think I am?
(Answer: Dead any moment now.)
Two: Is my reaction a glass half full or half empty?
(Answer: Half full because I’m happy these old friends are alive, but half empty because see question number one.)
I blame celebrities. If they’d stop dying, I might not think about my own mortality so much. I keep calling the still-alive ones to request that they live forever, but it usually results in restraining orders. Then they die. Probably to spite me.
I’ll just keep enjoying my life each day I’m here, working at home, hanging out with the cats, and listening to the newest certainly sane neighbor as he shouts helpful advice to all the “fuckin’ bitches” to “shut the fuck up.”
It’s the little things.