Day 729...

Oh dear -- a blog about running out of time, and I'm already running out of time to write about running out of time.  I hope someone somewhere finds this amusing, because I certainly don't.

One of the things I thought I could explore, in the beginnings of this journey, is the list of things with which, as of the achievement of my 70th year, and supposedly my last day alive, I will no longer have to concern myself.  As i must leave the house in about fifteen minutes, this topic seems ideal, as I can stop it anywhere I like, and resume it whenever and wherever it suits me.  A privilege of being on the way out, I think.

So, without any further ado than is absolutely necessary, it begins.

I will only have to make two more Christmas shopping lists, and worry about not having bought a single thing on either of them, come Christmas eve.

I only have two more years of hearing complaints about how early the Christmas decorations are going up this year.

I will never again have to concern myself with anything remotely related to, redolent of, or tasting like, pumpkin spice.

I will no long have to worry about how old I look, or whether or not I'll have to start wearing those shapeless tan trousers that older men seem to be able to find, in some awful store I don't yet know about.

I won't have to worry about not understanding constant references to TV shows and characters and plot lines for shows I'm only barely aware of, and have never seen.

I won't have to see what happens next, as the standards of public taste continue to shift, and I am now watching commercials about women having uncomfortably dry intercourse.  Or, to avoid being sexist, watching impossibly buff young men take showers and then shave, and look all the while like unconcerned young gods, because that's essentially what they are.  At least for the time being.

I will no longer have to worry about what it is that's going bad in the refrigerator.

I will never again have to change the cat litter.

I won't have to touch a snow shovel, unless there's some possible contact between the dead and the living, in which case, touching a snow shovel is all I'm likely to do.

I won't have to worry about losing my glasses at least...  (50 times 739...) 36,950 times in the space of roughly two years.

I won't have to concern myself about where my cell phone is, or whether it currently has a charge or not.

I won't have to secretly worry about not completely understanding just what an app really is.

I will no longer have to sit in a car, on a trip to a local party, in a neighborhood unfamiliar to us, and listen to Cyrus (we gave Siri a boy voice) interrupting our conversations with inane, useless instructions to turn left in 600 feet, by which time we've already gone too far...

I only have two more autumn leaf rakings to face.

I will never again have to visit a dentist.

I will never again get a flat tire, or have the transmission give out on me.

I will never again miss a train -- or even be just a minute too late for the last one for the next three hours, and the air conditioning is off in the Amtrak waiting room...

I won't have to worry about being late for something, even though I'm leaving fifteen minutes earlier than usual, but because driving on the Garden State Parkway is almost always a foretaste of Hell with Cars, I will still probably arrive later than if I'd waited half an hour.

I can ignore spell check.

I can keep my unblemished record of never having sent one single tweet during my entire human existence, and can brag about having only texted once -- a four-letter name, which ended up being a useless operation because soon thereafter, I lost my phone.

I will never again have to make the decision about when it's time to put a pet to sleep.

I will never again have to use euphemisms for killing my pets.

I can stop wondering whether my oven cooks too hot, or too cold, and just where the perfect place is, to set the pan of lasagna, so it doesn't burn on the bottom while staying raw on the top.

I won't have to worry about the escalating price of romano cheese -- or anything else, for that matter.

I won't have to worry about remembering a new acquaintance's name.

I won't have to wipe down the gym equipment after I've done my crunches in the Strive Room.

I will no longer need a parking space.

I will no longer need deodorant, or toothpaste, or moisturizer, or shampoo, or bath soap, or dish detergent, or postage stamps, or whole black pepper.

I won't have to worry about whether something's been grown locally, or bussed in on a huge, exhaust-belching eighteen-wheeler.

I will no longer have to search through the mess on the kitchen table, to find something that, by the time I've looked through everything, I've already forgotten what I was looking for in the first place.

Oops -- I'm two minutes over my self-imposed time limit.  Which, when you think about it, is pretty hilarious, because our measuring of time is totally connected of the spin of our planet in space.  How weird to think that I'm coordinating my miniscule life with the rotation of an entire populated glove, whirling through space.  Kind of makes ATM machines and passwords and correct change seem paltry, don't you think?

Now, I'm off, and if the gods are kind (or vengeful) I'll be back tomorrow, to continue the countdown, to Day One...  I can barely wait...


©˙ Walter Zimmerman  2014  (See, I told you I'd get it right.  But I had to ask John...)