A few days ago I called an old school friend who cheerfully said, 'Hey, I was just about to call you- you'll live a hundred years!'
I shuddered and made her take her words back. Living a hundred years is a goddamn curse, not a blessing! That conversation brought to mind a promise I'd made to myself when I was in my teens:
Plan A was: I would kill myself on my 30th birthday to save myself from the indignities of aging. I briefly contemplated my promise when I boisterously brought my 30th birthday in at a pub and shrugged it off with a 'Naah- not yet. Not sure if they have vodka in heaven, and besides there's so much more to look forward to. Better to go with Plan B.' Um, it turns out that I was wrong about the 'things to look forward to' part!
Plan B: I'd work very, very hard and save money to buy a cottage in Manali with a garden. Then I'd retire from the world and grow things in my garden. Not pretty perfumed flowers, but calming weed. That would be my compensation for suffering from failing eyesight, liver spots, gout, lumbago, arthritis, menopause, housemaid's knee, whatever! But you know what? Plan B doesn't excite me anymore.
The tragedy is, I never had a Plan C as a fall back option. I have absolutely no idea what to do with myself as I grow older and decrepit. Being an alcoholic is silly and boring - unless, of course, an effective hangover cure is discovered. Seeing the world is tedious with all those annoying security checks and terrorist-proof restrictions and even worse, you may die in a strange place and return home in the baggage hold and take your final cruise down the baggage conveyer belt. How sad is that?
Maybe I should learn something new to keep me excited about living. Now if only I could figure out what.