Quarter to Life
Twenty-five years later.
Something about the quarter-life sentiment struck the fear of God in me.
Am I really at my quarter-life point?
My father — three strokes and two heart attacks before fifty. Still hanging in there, somehow.
My father’s father died of a stroke before fifty.
My father’s mother died before forty, of cancer.
I’ve already had open-heart surgery.
Sure, they had their vices: smoking, chewing, sitting around.
I don’t remember my grandfather. I never met my grandmother.
The only biological grandparent I have left is sitting in memory care.
I want veins on my arms and legs. I want clear piss. No acne. A jawline.
When friends ask me to hike Mount Timpanogos, I don’t want to debate myself.
I don’t want limits anymore. Being active has always been the solution to everything, so why the hell have I avoided it?
I want to feel better. Look better. Live better. I want sex to be better. I just want to be better.
The uncertainty of what’s ahead flipped a switch in me — I fell behind.
Maybe I won’t reach fifty. Twenty-five years is plenty of time to die, but it’s also plenty of time to do something. To make this life matter.
I don’t believe in a next one. Never have. Never will.
I just don’t understand why I pissed away the first part of mine. No more.
“A cynic is a man who, when he smells flowers, looks around for a coffin.”
― H.L. Mencken