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Almost

I'd decided some time around my 15th year that by my 32nd birthday I'd be dead. It wasn't a suicidal thing or anything like a timeline for my own demise that I was going to actively persue, just a feeling I'd had. That I was going to die young, like the romantic poets before me. I was in Athens for my 32nd this past month, and the day came and went without so much as a funny twinge in my chest or being bitten by a rabid dog. Nothing. I went into a bit of a funk after that. Not immediately, but over the next few weeks I started to realize that I really had no plans beyond this, for getting older, for making decisions regarding whatever comes after. In a way, I had made my peace with not being here and I was somewhat dissappointed that nothing happened. Like waiting for a date that never showed up to take you to prom (or something).

So, I was in a funk. I was irritable, depressed and snapping at just about everyone. But in the last two days, I've had a couple of incedents. The day before yesterday, I was helping a truck driver loosen the chains on his load when the snipe he was using let go and flew, spinning through the air and missed my face by a few inches. Last night driving home, we almost hit a moose that ran across the highway in front of us. Two brushes, one month after my birthday. Makes me curious how close I am coming to realizing my prediction.

posted by September @ 10:14 AM