All The Hoopla.

I find myself thinking of death at strange times, more than usual, and it can only be because I’m getting older. Waves of realization hit me in the most unnecessary moments; on a random Tuesday while I’m driving it will dawn on me that I’m not a kid anymore, I’m not even a young adult. My box of personal Christmas decorations no longer includes any that belong to my parents. I’m feeling a crushing weight of possibility upon me, and with that a sense of purpose I'd rather not have.

What I think about the most is all the loose ends: The unfinished books on my nightstand, piled neatly next to a week old half-full glass of water. The stack of thank you cards unsent for birthday presents received this summer. The unreturned phone calls, the saved messages in my voice mail needing attention. The unfed cat, the unreturned Netflix movies. I wonder who has this one in their queue next, I wonder how long they’ll wait for it. How many things in my life begin with the prefix un?

I think of these things with great concern and interest because it’s easier than caring about anything that really matters, just as avoiding the most benign of commitments distracts the commitmentphobe from making complicated decisions. It’s easier to argue about not making plans for a Friday on a Monday than it is to argue about getting married or breaking up. We seclude ourselves in the details of things to evade the Big Picture, thinking maybe that will push off the inevitable a few more years, maybe more.

I, as it stands, am not ready to die. I'm selfish about my life and I waste it freely, and countless hours pass by as I'm languid in front of a Law & Order marathon with a bowl of pretzels at my side, I sit there and claim contentment. But the point of it all, of these ridiculous years we sift through and add up to call a life, the point of it all is that we don’t get to choose.

It isn't up to me to decide when I've had enough, when I've done enough or removed enough uns from my biography. In the great scheme of life there's no in between, we either do and did or we didn't and couldn't. On a random Tuesday while I’m driving it could all just stop and be over with in an instant, regardless of whether I was on my way to return those Netflix movies or not.

On my grave it will say one or two things: that I was a good daughter, sister, wife and maybe mother, that I was well loved and admired for one reason or another. Or instead it will read in shallow engravers lettering, “This page intentionally left blank.”