I have a birthday coming up soon. It's not a "milestone" birthday to be marked by celebration, it's just one of many innocuous numbers that mark a decrease in the years I have left until what's left of me gets put away to rot.
When we are young, we are excited, maybe even proud, of reaching ages 5, 10, 13, 16, 18, 21, 25, 35 -- because each of those numbers indicate added privileges and authority.
Later on, 65 means money from Social Security and Medicare, and senior discounts at unexciting restaurants.
After 65, each new number means that there is less left in the tank of life.
I've been assuming that I'll die at age 89. That number is now five years closer than when I picked 2035 as my last year, for my blog about dying.
Time is speeding up as it passes by. Sometimes years feel like they have only about five or six months in them.
2035 is approaching quickly. It's a mere two decades away, now. But there are many unforeseen horrors that could move my exit date closer. I'm taking things off my bucket list as I realize they are unattainable fantasies. I am buying less and giving way more.
I watched both of my parents -- both previously super-smart and vigorous -- fade away to become useless, barely animated collections of atoms.
Damn. Shit. Hell. Fooey.
I'm not depressed, just pissed off.
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