Wednesday, June 13


I've been faced recently with my own mortality. I'm not afraid of wrinkles and liver spots, I'm just incredibly nervous about the whole thing. 

Up until this year I was pretty certain I would die during this, my twenty first, year. The option is still highly plausible, but it's different to fear something in the future than to fear the immediacy of life. So it has been replaced with the simple expectation of middle age and up. I have always loved the idea of being one of those Grandmas that dresses up all the time and only eats Werther's Originals. The idea of my organs giving out on me and obtaining that 'old person' smell, and loss of vision and hearing and all of that is bone chilling. 

You think, maybe, that I should take up a rigorous diet and exercise regiment that should carry me through into my golden years, but I won't. Slow death in that regard is inevitable and a part of me pities those that think they can impede it. 

I was showing Allison pictures of my parents when they were her age, and she was blown away that Nana and Papa were once as little as her gang of friends. It dawned on me that one day she will be a Nana to some adorable girl or boy and I will be incredibly old. And will I have children or a successful career? Will I look back on my twenties as a time of sowing or a time of careless lollygagging? 

And if I do indeed die this year, what will become of my memory?