With my thirtieth birthday approaching this year, I have yet again surprised myself. I was always sure that once this critical year comes I will be completely devastated by the beginning of a new era heralded by wrinkles, unsightly leg veins, more cellulite, grey hair and did I mention wrinkles? I thought I would be using up my savings for very expensive creams that promise miracles and gathering the courage for my first botox. But no. I mean yes, all these things are bothering me. The wrinkles especially. No botox yet but I haven’t been carded for a long time now. The thing is all of it kind of faded in view of a graver problem that surprised me by arising out of nowhere.
Let’s not beat around the bush anymore, the issue that is occupying me so much to put my vanity on the backburner (it must be huuuge then) is death. Yes, I have just come to realize that I am going to die. I kind of knew before but not really, no I still hoped there would be some solution to the problem. I also thought that I will lead a life that is so fulfilling and happy that dying won’t be a problem. After all, having lived a life full of travel, having a career, four happy kids running around the tastefully decorated house, wonderful husband, a hobby that could as well be my second very successful career, many friends (and fans), after all that, I would die peaceful and happy knowing that I had it all. But again: no. That is not the case. Some travel, a job that I don’t like that much (and my contract expires in a year), no children, a small tiny cramped rent apartment, a husband with whom I seem to argue all the time, no time for hobby, too lazy, some friends but far away, no fans. I would definitely not like to die right now. Dying now, I wouldn’t have this feeling like after you have eaten a heavenly meal- satisfied, not too full but comfortably sleepy. In my case it would be more like after having a menu from Burger King on a gas station along a highway. Stuffed, nauseated, heavy and was the chicken meat cooked enough?
So death. I feel stupid as I know that I am not the first person to think about the problem. I really wish I was more religious. My father used to tell me “When you are twenty you think you’re immortal, the idea of you dying is unconceivable. When you are fifty you realize your own mortality”. True. And he also said “when I die you will regret not talking to me enough”. Not true, you toxic judgmental narcissist. But anyway. I now dread everyday that my grandparents will die soon. I even dreamed my grandpa for the first time in my life. The thought of my mother dying is too scary to even think of. I really wish there is something cool afterwards. I’ve been good right? Except these couple of times but I regret, I’ve changed, it counts right? Right? The thought that I already have more than a third of my life behind me (and actually closer to a half) is terrifying me. I just try to fend the thoughts away: I sit on the couch and knit and watch movies, so that there is not an ounce of attention free to devote to the big D. Just sometimes in bed it overpowers me. Good thing is that I am so tired from work and then a knitting movie marathon I fall asleep fast. I hope this passes. I hope to be detached again. I need a philosophy.
In other news yesterday I bought a concealer to hide dark circles under my eyes and a mask against first signs of aging. Death is sure but I cannot give up completely on the wrinkles front, can I?
And the quote is Woody Allen of course.
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