Dammit, What's My Age Again?

Driving into work a few weeks ago, I was listening to the radio and Blink 182's  "Dammit (Growing Up)" came on.  A smile spread across my face as I reached over to blast the song as loud as my Honda Odyssey's stereo would allow.  The levels of irony are not lost on me here people. I hadn't heard this song in years, but the memories attached to that particular song left me feeling happy and light as I headed in to teach a 125 seventh and eighth graders. In the Spring of 1998, my three girlfriends and I went to the DC Chili Cookoff to see Everclear, Blink 182, Smash Mouth, and some other bands.  While the show was great, what most sticks in my mind was our unplanned "detour."  We decided to take public transportation and thought we had read the subway map correctly.  As we confidently walked down the street bantering with one another, a cute college boy called out, "What are four white girls doing walking down this street?"  

We turned and giggled, "Dude, we're heading to the DC Chili Cookoff to see Everclear. You want to come with us?"  

"Are you sure about that?" 

We stopped in our tracks and looked at one another. Fortunately, this kind stranger stopped us from continuing down the street.  Apparently, we were heading into a part of town four naive white girls should avoid even on a beautiful May afternoon. Since it was before the days of cell phones, he ran inside to call his buddy from his home phone, who was heading to the same show. No, I do not believe it was a rotary phone. We arrived at the show unscathed forty-five minutes later and giggled about our near adventure on the "wrong side of town" for months afterwards.

I remember growing up listening to the radio while riding in the car with my Mom and her smiling, "This song reminds me of a dance when" or "this song reminds me of when your brother was a baby," and she would trail off describing some fond memory from her past. When I was kid, I was mystified by how music could stir from the depths of her mind memories, but now at the age of thirty-six, I totally get it. In his song "Springsteen," Eric Church sings, "funny how a melody sounds like a memory." I feel a day seldom passes a melody doesn't stir up mostly fond, sometimes bittersweet, and occasionally sad memories which reminds me I've got a few years on me.

Even though I'm getting older, I don't feel old. One morning I was hanging out with a dear friend of mine who commented on how different she feels now that she's thirty-six. She noted she feels her age. I nodded acknowledging her perspective, but in all honesty, I either don't feel my age or thirty-six feels pretty awesome. 

I acknowledge I'm getting older. In the drawer of my nightstand, I have dark spot corrector, anti-wrinkle eye cream, and anti-wrinkle moisturizer which I slather on my face nightly crossing my fingers hoping they will stymie the aging process. I notice a few gray strands intermixed with my highlights. When I sit at the Phillies' game with my husband, I turn to him in disbelief, "Really... I'm older than that guy?" Probably with the exception of Bobby Abreu, I'm older than almost every single player on the team, and everyone in Philadelphia gripes, "Those guys stink because they're all so freakin' old!" I've noticed my celebrity crushes from fifteen years ago are looking a little oldish, and my current celebrity crush, Joseph Gordon-Levitt is nearly four years my junior. I don't feel too creepy; we at least could have attended high school together. I look at Julia Roberts who I felt was the epitome of beauty when I was a teenager, and she still looks great but her looks great is now qualified by the phrase "for her age." She's got a solid ten years on me, but really if I looked half as good as her in ten years, I'd count myself lucky and so would my husband.

I love when People Magazine comes out with their "Most Beautiful People" issue. I invariably turn to the page titled "Beauty at Every Age" where the editors display pictures of starlets starting at the age of twenty and work their way through the decades. I gaze at the "beautiful" women at every age and of course pay special attention to the women who are my age. This year, I noted I am the same age as Kerry Washington, who is stunning. Sure there are plenty of beautiful women who are younger than her, but Kerry Washington exudes a confidence that most twenty-somethings don't.  In my twenties, often when I wore high heels in my classroom in hopes of seeming slightly more imposing than my five foot three and a half, I always felt like I was playing "dress-up" in my Mom's closet. Now when I wear heels, I feel like a grown woman. I look at pictures of myself from my twenties, and of course see the passage of time. I wish I could travel back and slap myself up the side of the head for ever worrying about if my stomach was flat enough, or can I really pull off wearing a bikini? Why couldn't I see then what I see now in those pictures? When I look at my reflection in the mirror, I'm certainly not as youthful as I once was, but I'm smarter and more self-assured which I realize is more important.

Most days, I think I feel around twenty-five; although, I can easily slip into feeling and acting like a twelve year old. It's one of the job hazards that comes with teaching middle schoolers who find humor in the silliest and stupidest things, and I love it. 

I firmly believe age is only a number, and a person is only as old as they feel. I recognize these are cliches, but cliches are cliches because they bear some truth.

Between Christmas and New Year's, we traditionally host a party with some wonderful friends. One of my former students and his wife come along with his parents. We befriended my former student's parents while he was still in high school, and our friendship with his parents continued after he graduated. They came to our wedding; we went to their son's wedding, and now we all see each other; although, not often enough from my perspective. The four of them are usually the last to leave our party and thinking of the ridiculous conversations and antics that transpire makes me smile as I write this.  My husband and I fall somewhere in between their ages, but since we share similar life views, values, and humor, the age difference fades into the background, and we purely just enjoy each other's company.

Probably Blink 182's most famous song is "What's My Age Again?"--a song that by the way evokes the memory of the first boy I ever fell in love with, which has become less bitter and more sweet with the passage of time-- and my response to that question changes on a daily basis, dependent on my mood and my circumstances. My goal though is to never feel my age. To always feel younger than the number which quantifies my years on this planet. I may have had to grow up, but dammit, I'm not going to be old. 

Losing My Religion

Fifteen years ago, I officially lost the religion that solely defined me for the first twenty-two years of my life. I have to admit it's a topic of conversation I avoid because of the feelings it evokes. For years, when friends would talk about their religion and their religious experiences growing up, my heart would stick in my throat, and I would repeat in my head, "Please don't ask, please don't ask." For years after losing my religion, I couldn't discuss these experiences without completely losing my composure. If I could clearly and definitively describe my experiences as bitter or painful, I think I would feel much more comfortable discussing them. But there were many parts of my religious experience I appreciated and enjoyed. I still at times yearn for the warm blanket of comfort I felt in my congregation; however, I know those feelings of nostalgia are tainted with fear and manipulation.  As a result, I feel a mixture of sadness, loss, gratitude and relief when I reflect on the faith that defined me as person for so long.

Shortly after my older brother was born, my mother was contacted by Jehovah's Witnesses who were preaching "door to door."  My mom invited the Witnesses to come back and after studying and learning about the faith, she felt moved to join the local Congregation of Jehovah's Witnesses.  By the time I was born, both of my parents were members of the local congregation and the organization at large. Throughout my childhood and teenage years being a Witness was the most important, defining part of my life. Every week, my family attended a two-hour meeting on Sunday mornings. On Monday or Tuesday evenings we participated in an hour long Bible Study, which for years was held at our home.  On Thursday nights, we attended another meeting that clocked in around an hour and half, and most Saturday mornings I spent preaching "door to door" for two to three hours while most kids my age were watching The Smurfs or The Snorks in their cozy living rooms.  Our weekly meetings super-ceded everything.  We only missed when we were ailing, and it wasn't uncommon for us to slog through all sorts of inclement weather on Saturday mornings to preach God's Word. I never went to a birthday party.  I never had a birthday party.  We didn't celebrate Valentine's Day, St. Patrick's Day, Easter, the Fourth of July, Halloween, Thanksgiving, or Christmas.  I stood politely and silently as my classmates pledged the flag every morning at school. In high school, I wasn't allowed to play sports, go to dances, or take part in school activities. I wasn't allowed to date as a teenager and would only be allowed to date another Jehovah's Witness when I was ready to get married. My only sleepovers were at the home's of other Jehovah's Witnesses, and my only "true" friends were Witnesses.

Given the list of things I wasn't able to do, one might think I had an unhappy childhood, but in all honesty, I would describe my childhood as exceedingly happy.  I grew up in a tight-knit, loving family. Because our faith strongly discouraged us from associating with our extended family who were not Jehovah's Witnesses, and we didn't participate in events which typically bring families together, I think we clung to our small unit with all our might.  We ate dinner together nightly as a family, attended our weekly meetings together, and let our faith first and foremost guide our lives as a family unit.  We were a model family in our local congregation. Jehovah's Witnesses encourage their believers to only associate with members of their faith as a "safeguard."  Everyone outside the organization is viewed as "worldly" and all dealings with "worldly" individuals should be kind, courteous and most importantly distant. With the exception of my grandparents, I considered my congregation to be more of my family than my own "blood" relatives and treated them accordingly.  My best friend growing up was a member of my congregation, and her parents were like my second parents and vice versa.  We slept over each other's houses, vacationed together, and in the summer on the days my mother worked, I would often spend the day with her and her mom.  Our lives were intertwined to the point that we were more like sisters than friends.  I also was fortunate to have a fair number of kids my age in our congregation which was comprised of nearly a hundred members. The larger organization of Jehovah's Witnesses dictated the congregation one attended geographically, and other kids weren't so lucky in other congregations to have so many young people. I felt loved, accepted and secure in this community and still fondly remember many wonderful experiences with the members of the congregation.

As a teenager, I decided to officially dedicate my life to God and be baptized.  This was a serious step and a rite of passage in my faith.  Baptisms took place at events called assemblies or conventions which occurred three times a year.  Our assemblies were held at a facility outside of Harrisburg where a group of eight to ten congregations would convene to participate in two day gatherings for upwards of eight hours each day.  Conventions were held in even larger venues and comprised of congregations from around the state and lasted three to four days. Our yearly summer convention was typically held in Veteran's Stadium in Philadelphia where we often sweltered in the sun while the Phillies were on the road.  I looked forward to these assemblies and conventions because it meant I would meet new Witnesses who were my age and stay overnight in hotels for a mini-vacation.  I can still remember the excitement and pride I felt about my baptism at the age of fifteen.  The weeks leading up to my baptism, I met with different elders in my congregation to discuss why I wanted to be baptized and the great obligations that came with being a baptized member of the congregation.  I was also questioned regarding the basic tenets of our faith and my overall knowledge of the Bible.

After my baptism, I worked to be a sterling role model in my local congregation.  I faithfully attended meetings, prayed several times during the day, spent hours studying the Bible and the publications distributed by the organization, and frequently dedicated sixty hours a month in the summer preaching from "door to door."  I knew my goals for the future.  I would hopefully be married by the age of twenty or twenty-one to a Jehovah's Witness, preach from "house to house" like Jesus Christ, and wait patiently for Armageddon and my salvation from this evil world.  I thought I had everything figured out and knew what God had in store for me.

In the late Fall of my senior year of high school, my Grammy, who was my greatest life champion, asked me if I wanted to go to college.  My response was an immediate and definitive N-O.  Jehovah's Witnesses did not go to college.  Since the end of the world was around the corner, there was really no need to worry about my job security or financial future after all.  Sure, I was smart and academics came easily, but college?  After my Grammy planted the seed though, the idea took root. I loved going to school.  I loved reading and learning. But, of course, my first love and priority would always be my religion. My Grammy was persistent and frequently told my father "what a waste it would be not to send Jennifer to college."  While my Grammy had quietly accepted we didn't come over for Christmas dinner and settled for buying me a Savings Bond around my birthday, she was insistent I be given the opportunity to go to college, an opportunity she had been denied by her own parents. My father relented and said he would support my decision. If I wanted to go to college, he would allow it. Of course, there would be no dorming, but I could select any college in the area and commute.

In the Fall of 1995, I headed off to a small, local college.  I noted my path had changed slightly, but my ultimate goals remained the same.  I would still marry a Jehovah's Witness, get a better job after college that would allow me to preach from "house to house" like Jesus Christ, and wait patiently for Armageddon and my salvation from this evil world.  Over the next four years though my perspective on the world changed dramatically. There wasn't just one single moment that triggered my disillusionment with my religion; rather, it was a collection of events which opened my eyes to the faults in my faith.  As an English major, I learned how to interpret literature from many different perspectives and could support these interpretations with the text. I began to consider this idea in relation to the Bible. While the people who wrote the magazines and publications for Jehovah's Witnesses claimed to be inspired by God's Holy Spirit, I began to question their inspiration. I started to question the "wickedness" of "worldly" people. A lot of "worldly" people were kind, lived good lives and looked out for others. I noted some members of my own faith followed the principle of "do as I say, not as I do" and were far from kind. I noted the inconsistencies in the message of love and tolerance I preached with the actual realities of my religion that at times espoused intolerance and judgment. I looked at some of the senior members of the congregation who had put off having children and living life in some respects because Armageddon was around the corner. They tried to conceal their sadness and regrets with smiles, but I could see in their eyes how they looked at our family and other families and longed for the one they had forgone too many years ago so they could better serve God. Finally, I struggled to reconcile how my all powerful God of love could allow cancer to wither my Grammy's body and what I thought was an indomitable spirit to nothing in a matter of months; an injustice that years later can still suck the air from my lungs.

I graduated college and debated my future.  I knew I no longer believed in my religion, but I was terrified of what I would be without it.  All of my friends, "my family" were Jehovah's Witnesses. The moment I chose to leave, they would no longer be allowed to associate with me or speak to me. I also thought of all the examples of members who left the "flock" of the organization who led lives of sin. There was always a veritable parade of former Witnesses who were now drug addicts, thieves, alcoholics, or single mothers left jilted because of their promiscuous behavior. No one who ever stopped being a Jehovah's Witness ever ended up with a better life, or at least that's what I was told on an all too regular basis.  As I struggled with this dilemma and considered my future, I knew I couldn't pretend to be a part of a religion I no longer believed in and began to recognize how I had been in many ways duped, manipulated and coerced into subjection by fear. Fear of losing my family. Fear of losing out on my divine reward. 

After graduating college, I decided to take a job two hours away from the place I called home which inevitably enabled me to cleanly sever ties with my religion. When I first moved to the Philadelphia area, I did go to a few meetings at the local Congregation of Jehovah's Witnesses but quickly realized it wasn't what I wanted nor did I need it. I decided to "disassociate" myself from the organization stating I no longer wanted to be a member and to remove my name from their rolls.  With that decision, I lost a lot--my childhood best friends, a congregation of individuals who had been my family since I was born, and the one thing that had defined me and my purpose in life for so long. The loneliness and fear I felt was further compounded as my parent's thirty year marriage disintegrated. The feeling of being alone was at first crushing and terrifying. I must admit at times I doubted my decision. Had I made a foolish mistake? Maybe I should return, tail between my legs, and repent? But those feelings and doubts dissipated with the passage of time and were replaced by relief and a sense of freedom I had never felt before. The mental clarity was intoxicating.

Losing my religion is by the far the hardest decision I have ever made and also by far the best decision I ever made. In all reality, I don't have any regrets or lingering animosities about being raised as a Jehovah's Witness. Sure, more than a decade later, I would be lying if I were to say I didn't terribly miss my childhood best friend. When my Dad tells me he saw a member of the congregation at the grocery store who we knew for over twenty years, and this person avoids even making eye contact with my Dad, my heart hurts. But I guess this is how we have to pay for our sins--I had done the same to other people who decided to leave or were forced to leave the congregation. When my Dad came to visit us this past Christmas, a holiday I now relish spending with my family, he asked if I ever felt deprived during my childhood because of how I was raised.  I immediately responded no. My parents did a wonderful job of making me feel loved. I don't question their motivation or intentions for a second. They were just doing what they thought was best for their family. I also reassured my Dad because of my religious experiences and in spite of those religious experiences, I have become a strong, independent, tolerant, kind and loving individual who sees the best in this life. While I may not lead the life I was indoctrinated to follow during my formative years, I have no qualms or reservations about the path I picked. I am far from perfect. I am human and full of flaws like everyone else on this planet.  I also remind myself, I have little time for regretting the past.  I spent far too many years waiting on a future that wasn't to be and want to spend my energies and time enjoying the present.



  

“There are no bad pictures; that's just how your face looks sometimes.”

I have decided the time has come for me to select a picture for my blog.  Let me start by saying I HATE having my picture taken and in general do my best to always avoid being the subject of any photos.  It's ironic given how much I love pictures and that I have been scrapbooking for close to fifteen years. I love pictures and the memories they evoke but would rather focus on the places I've been and the people I love than be the subject.

There are two main reasons why I hate having my photo taken.  The first being what I have termed my "Sloth Eye."  As a teenager, my three best girlfriends and I loved to take pictures.  Before the days of digital photography, we would buy actual film or disposable cameras, snap ridiculous photos, drop the film off at CVS, and wait impatiently for them to be developed.  We would excitedly pick them up from the store and rip open the envelope to laugh at our awesome candids of one another, our goofy friends, and crushes. Repeatedly, I would look at the photos and groan at my awful droopy, squinty right eye.  What the heck? In my adorably cute pictures from my very early childhood, I never had this problem.  I don't have a lazy eye, but for whatever reason, I had developed what we coined my "Sloth Eye." The official term "Sloth Eye" is an allusion to Sloth from the classic film The Goonies. "Baby Ruth!"  Thankfully with the advent of digital photography, the incident rate of "Sloth Eye" has diminished significantly.  But I do feel the need to mention my dear friend Laura who knows about my "Sloth Eye" and during the whole process of my getting married--two bridal showers, a Bachelorette Party, Rehearsal Dinner, and actual Wedding Day, she was the best bridesmaid a girl could ask for since she would be on the lookout for my "Sloth Eye" and would immediately insist on a picture re-take.  She even warned my wedding photographer. In turn, I repaid the favor by informing Laura whenever she had some crumbs or weird stains on the shirt covering her then pregnant belly. Every girl needs a girlfriend who will look for spinach in your teeth or toilet paper stuck to the bottom of your shoe, and at first may laugh at you, but won't allow you to look ridiculous in front of others. 

My second reason for hating having my picture taken has to do with my own personal insecurities that stem from my tween and teen years.  You know how they say the camera adds ten pounds?  Well, when you factor in that I ALWAYS believe I can stand to lose a good five to ten pounds, according to my math, that puts me at a solid fifteen to twenty pounds heavier than I want to be in every single picture.  I do not feel that I am alone in this belief.  At least that's what I tell myself.  I think a lot of other women share the same insecurities about their bodies, or at least that's what I learned from watching the Today Show.  From fourth grade through twelfth grade, I vacillated through varying degrees of chubbiness.  Before entering a growth spurt, I would pack on the pounds and then grow an inch.  I never grew enough vertically though to ever really lose my chubbiness.  My insecurities were further compounded by having a "skinny attractive mom.  "That's your mom?" boys would question in disbelief.  I obviously didn't inherit her slim genes.  Even during pregnancy, my mom never endured the moment of when the nurse slides the big weight over. My senior year of high school, I went on the best diet ever--mono-- and dropped ten pounds.  During my freshmen year of college as a commuter I managed to drop the "freshmen fifteen." In college, I finally made some peace with my insecurities about my weight; although, I wouldn't have minded losing another five pounds.

During pregnancy, I did my best to feel carefree about gaining weight.  After all, I was growing a human being for goodness sake.  However, when you are pregnant, people you know and absolute strangers feel the need to constantly comment on your physical appearance.  Granted, people often say kind things like "Oh, you're carrying well" or "Wow, you're all belly."  But there are also a lot of people who give you backhanded compliments or are cluelessly just straight-up rude.  I remember when I was pregnant with my second son, one of my student's parents asked me if I was having a girl this time.  When I responded, "No, I'm having another boy."  She looked at me quizzically and noted how differently I was carrying this baby.  I took this to mean I looked like crap.  A few weeks later, I went out to celebrate my sister-in-law's 30th birthday.  I really didn't want to go because I was tired and pregnant, but my husband reminded me that with baby #2 due soon, I should get out while the getting was good.  I did my best to pull myself together and wore cute shoes in hopes they would distract from my burgeoning belly.  Forgetting that my sister-in-law and brother-in-law are usually late, I was the first one to arrive at the small restaurant.  I stood by the hostess stand since "bellying up" to the crowded bar seemed inappropriate.  A couple stood next to me, and the husband gave me a leering smile, "You got twins in there?"

I smiled back placidly, "No."  

He chortled, "Triplets, maybe?"

"No, thanks though," I replied sarcastically.

Two weeks later at a friend's wedding I had two other different individuals ask me if I was having twins.  Needless to say, I can probably count on one hand the number of photos there are of me during both of my pregnancies. 

As a mom, I now have the two best subjects for photos who have no inhibitions about having their photo taken.  Why would they? They are adorable.  I think most moms would agree that they spend most of their time behind the camera because often there's no one else around to take the picture. Fine by me.  However, as I began to look at the collection of photos of my boys, I began to rethink my self-imposed anonymity in these photos.  While I doubt my abilities as a mom on probably a daily basis, I do adore being with my boys and feel I am present, at least most of the time.  I love taking them to new places, jumping on a trampoline while they squeal with delight, or running around our house dancing as I play Martha Quinn with the On Demand Music Channel.  I know with the passage of time, my boys will forget these specific moments, but I hope they hold on to how they feel in those moments--happy, joyous and adored.  

I also reminded myself that I need to stop hiding behind the camera, so they can one day not just remember but see that Mom wasn't just there to take the picture, she was there to experience and enjoy the moment with them. That those photos with mom will evoke those memories and feelings.  Sure, I may have a "Sloth Eye" here or there, and from my perspective, I may look like I can stand to lose a few pounds, but when capturing those memories, "there are no bad pictures; that's just how [my] face looks sometimes" and that's okay.  

This photo was from Nate's first day of kindergarten as we waited for the school bus to pick him up; a milestone day I will never forget.  I still remember getting off the bus after my first day of kindergarten and running into my mom's arms. 

Spoiler Alert: "There Will Come a Time When All of Us are Dead"

At the SAG Awards two weeks ago, the adorable Jennifer Lawrence had a fan meltdown when she met Damian Lewis from Homeland on the red carpet.  The two shared a moment followed by Access Hollywood's Shaun Robinson "spoiling" the third season of Homeland by revealing the fate of Lewis' character.  Lawrence was appalled and horrified by the revelation since she hadn't yet watched the third season.  I, too, have not yet watched the third season of Homeland and inadvertently saw Brody's fate in Entertainment Weekly's "Year in Review Issue" a few weeks ago.  I'm a bit behind in my TV viewing, and like some people, have recently become addicted to Breaking Bad after hearing other people rave about the show. In the process of learning Brody's fate in EW, I also inadvertently learned the fate of Walter White after only having watched the first season of the show.  My initial response was to throw my hands and my magazine up in the air in annoyance.  Way to go and ruin the show! I had been taking careful measures while reading EW and conversing with people who watch the show to avoid this exact situation.  But then I took a moment to reflect. Am I really surprised to learn the fate of Walter White?  Nope. And more importantly does knowing the fate of Walter White really impact how I consume his journey into the dark side of humanity? Nope. I may know the ending, but I am confident I will continue to be astounded by the insanity and absurdity of Walter's dissent into oblivion like so many tragic figures before him.

In high school, I remember reading Romeo and Juliet in my Freshmen English class knowing full well the outcome of the tragedy; however, this knowledge in no way diminished my experience.  In fact, it may have heightened my experience.  Instead of worrying about what may come of poor Romeo and the lovely Juliet, I was able to focus on the beauty of their experience. After reading Shakespeare's Julius Caesar in tenth grade and knowing the fate of Caesar, I smiled at my twelfth grade English teacher as she passed out Hamlet and thought wryly, bet things don't go so well for this guy.  Shakespeare is considered one of the greatest playwrights to ever live, and he "spoiled" every single tragedy he wrote by naming it after the character or characters he offed by the end of the play.     

Likewise, one of my current favorite TV shows How I Met Your Mother has made me fully aware of the main character's romantic fate.  In the fall, I felt so sad knowing this would be the last season for a show that so consistently makes me laugh and ugly cry-- sometimes in the same episode.   I remember gasping for breath from laughing so hard during "Bad News" and still fill up with tears thinking about the last twenty seconds of that particular episode. But I find myself disappointed with the final season of the show because the writers have become so consumed with the ending that they have lost sight of what made the show so special and poignant.

Great TV, great movies, great works of literature aren't about the ending; they're about the journey.  I vividly remember the Saturday the UPS driver delivered the final book in the Harry Potter series.  I was so excited to ignore my son and get lost in the book.  But I paused after tearing open the package when I considered that this would be the end of my journey with Harry Potter.  Instead of devouring the book in one setting, which of course was my initial plan, I took my time and frequently reminded myself to savor this last segment of his  journey.  

Great TV, great movies, and great works of literature don't just entertain, they instruct; they make us think.  And the most important lesson I have learned from fine entertainment is the importance of enjoying the journey.  But, it's also a lesson that I sometimes forget in my daily life.   I'm a planner and sometimes spend too much time worrying, planning or daydreaming about the future.  I constantly have to remind myself the importance of living in the present and enjoying the moment. I feel I have become especially aware of this as I watch my boys grow-up before my eyes.  

As I watch my boys grow up, I am also well aware of how quickly time passes. Like everyone, I am aware of my own mortality; although, it's not a topic I like to dwell on for too long.  In John Green's novel, The Fault in Our Stars, Hazel, the main character quotes her favorite author, who notes, "There will come a time when all of us are dead."  Thankfully, I don't know when that will be the case for me.  If I had that knowledge I would probably be more paralyzed than poor Hamlet by the decision of what to do next?

In the novel The Fault in Our Stars, the main character is so worried about her ending and the repercussions of her life ending, that she has spent most of her sixteen years without even living.  Fortunately, she realizes a person should live and enjoy the journey without worrying about "what a slut time is [since] she screws everybody." She reflects at the end of the novel that it's possible to enjoy "a forever within the numbered days."  What a beautiful notion--"a forever within the numbered days." Like everyone else on this planet, I know there will come a time when I cease to exist. But I also know I'm going to strive to enjoy the "forever within my numbered days" instead of worrying about the inevitable ending.