Hey you. Yes you, sitting there, watching baseball, or golf, or paint dry. You who thrives on getting just 60 minutes to yourself so you can watch that "America's Got Talent" show that you saved on TiVo last week, or building that oversized birdhouse in your backyard because Home Depot had a free demo on it. As the seconds of your life tick by, and you sink into the comfort of your mediocrity, thinking that you have time, consider this.
I might die tomorrow. Not you. Not your 80 year-old mother or 90 year-old grandfather. Me. Middle-aged, full of life, vibrant, high-spirited, talkative me. Me, who turns your life upside-down because I have no filter. Me, who has tried to set you up with every single person I know because I want you to find the happiness that found me years ago. Me, who has been running around this crazy world, seeking dangerous circumstances, taking selfies, and posting to Facebook while you keep your couch from floating away. Yes, it is me who might just die tomorrow. Poof. Gone in an instant.
I guarantee the world will be different without me. The sky will be a little less blue. The grass a little less green and the sun just a touch less brilliant. You won't notice the sweet smell of an ocean breeze, or the crisp, clean air at the top of the mountain. You will lament the snowfall because you have to shovel your way out to get to that awesome, desk job day in and day out, rather than embracing the 8 inches of powder and heading out to play in it. I get it. You are an adult. You have responsibilities. You have kids. You can't just up and leave your life for that thing that feeds your soul. It's irresponsible. It's selfish. It's not serving the greater good. You've worked all your life for this stable, comfortable, state of mediocrity, and by gosh, you are going to see it through.
Then, you are going to retire and when you retire, maybe you'll take that trip you've always wanted to take, or buy that car you've always wanted to fix up. You'l remodel the kitchen for the umpteenth time or recover the furniture because, again, Home Depot has a workshop.
And when you finally find the time to do something wild and crazy, like shop at Trader Joe's instead of your usual Safeway fallback, I will be long gone. No more selfies. No more adventures. No more calls from the airport. "Hey, I'm in town. Drop everything and let's go act like teenagers."
You may not notice it at first, but something will be missing. While you are searching for the hammer you misplaced, you'll wonder why your email is full of spam instead of long-winded, heartfelt letters trying to explain the meaning of life from a cafe in Indonesia. You might wake up one day and say to yourself, "Something's missing."
And it will be me.
So by all means, isolate yourself with the meaningless and the mundane. Save up for that comfy vacation you take to Arizona every year, and count the days until you can get that AARP card. Relish those senior discounts all over town. Get a little fatter and make sure that pasty white skin of yours never sees the sun.
It's dangerous out there. You're too old to take those risks. You're too smart to do something wild and crazy and fun. You might lose yourself, or that ridiculously unhappy person in your life who sucks the life out of you. Your life might change.
As the years go by, you will train yourself not to miss me, or the countless others who disappear from your life. You will forget all the goodness I once brought to you, and the love that consumed you with passion and vibrancy. And while my death will be quick and tragic and awful, yours will be slow and methodical. You will lose one thing everyday, your agility, your memory, your eyesight. Until all that's left is a shell of a human being that your kids have to endure.
You will die too.
So make that phone call. Reserve those airline tickets and go to that place on the other side of the planet where the wind smells sweet and the music dances between the thunder of crashing waves. Write to her. Embrace him even though you know it's going to turn you inside out. Swim, ski, ride, play, dance, sing, because tomorrow, I will be dead. You will remain with the hollow feeling of "if only she had more time."
"If only I had taken that risk."
So far, none of us have gotten out of this life alive. That is certain. The when and how is not defined. If you only had six months left to live, what would you do with it? You can ask this question all day and answer with all the exotic plans you made as a young 20-something with your whole life ahead of you. But when do you ask yourself, what if Sally only has six months? What if Johnny is bed-ridden for the rest of his life. What if you can no longer call/text/email your best friend because they are now gone, mentally, physically, spiritually? Or stuck in a skilled nursing facility with no internet, no money and no Monday night football?
If you are happy with that particular brand of mediocrity, then by all means revel in it. Let it drive your emotions, and carry you away to that next Home Depot project. But don't count on me for vicarious adventures because tomorrow, I'm going to die. I'm going to die before you. You are going to feel it, and our last chance for love and friendship and laughter will die with me.
Then you'll be dead too.
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