Setting Up A Will Is Proving Harder Than I Thought

On November 6, 2024November 6, 2024 By Dean BrooksLeave a comment

Especially when you’re a bachelor with no kids.

There’s a part of you that thinks you’ll live forever. It’s right next to the part that thinks you’ll never get old. Even though both parts are dwarfed by the rational side that says you certainly will on both accounts, what they don’t have in size they make up for in denial.

Recently, I’ve been trying to write my will through a free legal site called, appropriately enough, Free Will. But it’s proved a challenge. The website is easy to use. Almost too easy. I expected the whole will writing endeavor to be more formal. Like something you do in a suit and tie in a lawyer’s office.

I’d heard it’s a good idea to write a will out no matter your age. This is to prevent legal complications with family or beneficiaries following your expiration. Things can get messy without proper paperwork. Plus, you don’t know when it’ll be your time. As the Southern Baptist preachers at the churches I went to as a kid used to say, “Tomorrow is not promised.”

I don’t have insignificant assets. But I lack immediate kin. I’m not married and I do not have kids. If I did, this whole process of will writing would be much easier. My wife would get everything. Or if I was divorced I’d leave everything to my kid(s). Pretty simple. I encountered a similar issue with my life insurance beneficiary designation at work. If I eat it while on the job, my designee gets $100,000. That’s like winning Wheel of Fortune. But it all comes to nought if you don’t have anyone to hand that benefit off to. So I’ve had to just leave that section blank.

So, what the hell do you do when you’re a bachelor? I don’t even have a pet to leave my worldly belongings to the way this lady left $13 million to her cat. Legally, I suppose my assets would go to my family, meaning my mother and my half siblings, without a designated beneficiary of my choosing.

However, at the moment, I’m leaning toward leaving most of my assets to charity. The Red Cross, in particular. I donate blood and money regularly to that organization. In fact, I have a blood draw coming due shortly.

I’ve also considered leaving something for my alma mater. I like the idea of setting up a scholarship for writers, or maybe for older students trying to return to finish a degree, the way I did.

I’d also want to give something back to a few public libraries I’ve frequented over the years. Sometimes when you donate enough they honor you with a little brass plaque or a name plate on a donor wall. I like that idea. My name, shining and adorned, secured by two screws, hanging around for a few decades. People who randomly read the list will see my name, wonder who in the hell I was, not care, then go about borrowing Twilight for the millionth time.

I have two nieces and two nephews for whom I’d want to leave something. Like many, when I became an adult, I started with nothing. I was born into the lower-middle class. Only a small percentage of people ever receive an inheritance, much less a sizable one. I had nothing in early adulthood. Nobody paid for my college. My parents wouldn’t even fill out the FAFSA form. My grandmother was very supportive of me and some other members of my family were also very helpful. But I’ve been working since I was 14, and wherever I could, I always paid my own way. Cars, car insurance, gas, clothes, etc. Life is a lot easier when you’re given help at the starting line with big ticket items like college tuition. Many Millennials are only able to afford down payments for homes because their parents helped them. It can’t be overstated how far getting a leg-up when you’re young can go. I’d like to give my nephews and nieces something I never had. But they will likely have all the help they need anyway from their parents.

If I were to pass before my mom, I’d like to leave something for her as well.

There are a lot of options here. You can see how having to decide whom or what to leave your money to can lead to analysis by paralysis.

Then there’s the specific monetary designations. How much to give? Do I give that person or that organization $10,000? $50,000? $100,000? Free Will lets you divvy your estate by percentages. That’s a better option considering most of my assets are in mutual funds and ETFs that track the stock market, which can be volatile.

That’s only the money aspect. There’s also a section on Free Will for physical assets. Things like furniture, collectibles, cars, clothes, and anything else you can think of. Over the last few years I’ve been largely minimalist, abstaining from unnecessary consumer purchases. I rarely go clothes shopping. I’m not into bling like watches or other needless accessories. I’ve considered getting into collecting things like LEGO sets and NES video games I used to play. But at the moment I keep almost everything I value in a secure storage locker several states away. I want to have a proper place to display any collectibles before investing the time or effort into acquiring them. I do have a lot of books, though. While it pains me to think that most of them will likely end up at a garage sale, at Goodwill, or (God forbid) in the trash, that’s the likely outcome. I’ll have to designate that all my books are to be donated to my frequented libraries.

Then there’s my digital assets. Who gets my Medium account? It does generate money every month. Who gets my personal website? Or access to all my online accounts? My X? My email? What about my intellectual property? My books? Who gets the rights to them? As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve self-published three books, but have eight more in various stages of completion, including one I just finished.

Maybe I’ll be one of those posthumously famous authors, like Franz Kafka or John Kennedy Toole.

The whole process of will writing can be bewildering and stifling. The details are too much to think about. I’m only middle-aged. I’m not hooked up to a hundred machines in hospice care. I’ve not been given a terminal diagnosis. I’m fortunate to be in good health. I exercise and take care of myself. I don’t drink, smoke, do drugs, or engage in unhealthy habits. But like I said, anything is possible. People my age drop dead of heart attacks out of nowhere all the time. I hope I stick around as long as possible, but that’s largely not up to me.

Making a will feels pointless, even though I know it’s not. It’s even a bit scary. It’s tough to think of post-me life. Of me not existing. It’s not the most pleasant or fun thing to think about. The mind has trouble accepting that inevitable reality. It’s like going to the dentist for a cavity. I can see why so many people put off making wills, often until it’s too late. I do like the idea of my assets going to help others I care about after I’m gone. I’ll have to let that motivate me to get it done.

Five Bizarre And Hauntingly Disturbing Deaths

On November 1, 2024November 1, 2024 By Dean BrooksLeave a comment

We’ve all got to go sometime. Just hopefully not like this.

With Halloween just passed, death has been on my mind lately. It might be due to the changing fall season. Or it could be due to recently watching horror flicks Barbarian and the latest Scream films.

How in the world does the Scream franchise keep chugging along? I thought it ran out of gas 15 years ago. Guess audiences will never tire of watching a dude in a mask stab people in the face.

Of course, if I have the choice on how to die, it’s definitely NOT going to be via some psycho going stabby stabby with my vital organs. I’d much rather die peacefully and in my sleep, with loved ones gathered around.

But sadly, not everyone gets to go out that way. Some people have died in freakishly weird and distubing ways. Ways that keep me up at night. Here are a few of them.

Guy Dies Accidentally Stabbing Himself To Death Trying to Separate Frozen Hamburgers

This story is why our moms warned us to always cut away from our bodies when using a knife or a pair of scissors.

Barry Griffiths, age 57, lived alone, and apparently was in the process of making himself hamburgers for dinner. His freezer door was left open. Thawed meat left on the counter. Police say it was an “unexplained” death, but that while separating the burgers, he inadvertantly stabbed himself. He was found on his bed several days later. Griffiths lived alone, and by all accounts was a “private” man. He also had limited use of one arm.

This death disturbs me because it’s so mundane and random. All the guy wanted to do was eat his dinner. You could easily imagine this poor fellow eager to make himself a meal, only to wind up slowly bleeding to death from the stomach. Blood was found throughout the kitchen and hallway. Making matters worse, he died alone. Who knows if he could have been saved. Many times people who are injured are in shock. If someone had been there, he might still be alive.

Guy Gets Himself Trapped Upside Down In A Cave And Dies 27 Hours Later

Why people go cave exploring where it involves squeezing themselves into VERY narrow crevices without knowing if there’s even an exit will never ever fucking make sense to me whatsoever. Why do that? Just why? Seriously, why?! I know there’s nothing good on Netflix to watch anymore, but that’s no excuse.

I say this as someone who liked doing bike tricks off ramps as a kid and has gone skydiving. I’m okay with some unnecessary risks. But not that.

John Jones was all of 26 when he and a few friends decided to go cave exploring at Nutty Putty Cave in central Utah back in 2009. They were in search of a passageway called “The Birth Canal.” Only Jones mistook an unmapped passageway for the correct one, and wound up becoming permanently stuck. Rescuers tried to pull him out, but the angle in which he was trapped made it almost impossible. At least not without breaking his legs in the process. Just look at the above diagram to see what I mean.

Actually, don’t look at it. That shit is pure nightmare fuel.

Still, rescuers were able to get Jones partially pulled up, before their rope and pulley system collapsed. Joned eventually died later. They were forced to leave his body there. The cave was sealed to prevent anyone else from accessing it in the future.

Man, what a way to go.

Danish Astronomer (And Guy) Dies Due To A Burst Bladder After Refusing To Leave A Banquet

Look, we’ve all been in social situations where suddenly nature came calling, forcing us to quickly find a place to do our business. When I was a little kid I once went number two at a hardware store when I found a row of display toilets that I evidently thought were working models. They were not. No, were not.

Tycho Brahe, aside from having probably the coolest-sounding name ever, was a prominent scientist in his day. He also famously lost part of his nose in a drunken duel with a fellow academic over who was the superior mathematician. Nerd fights were hardcore back then.

While at a banquet in 1601, Brahe felt the need to urinate. But he refused to leave, as he thought it would be seen as improper. So he wound up staying. But later, when he did try to pee, he could only go a little, and only very painfully. He languished in his bed for eleven days, before eventually dying from what many modern medical experts deem a burst bladder.

This death freaks me out because it demonstrates how social pressure (real or imagined) can compel people into doing self-destructive acts just to be “polite.” It also shows how even geniuses can be catastrophically stupid.

Teenaged Guy Eats Slug On A Dare, Goes Into A Coma, Becomes Paralyzed, And Dies

Speaking of social pressure, this next freaky death happened because of a stupid dare amongst teenaged boys. In 2010, 19-year-old Sam Ballard, an Australian who liked playing rugby, was hanging out at home on his patio with a couple friends when a slimy snail happened to come crawling by. Prompted by a dare to eat it, Ballard scooped the creature up and swallowed it. Yes, alcohol was involved in this decision.

Almost right away, Ballard began to feel negative physical effects. Before long he was in a coma for over a year. When he finally awoke, he was paralyzed, and required a feeding tube and 24/7 medical care.

It wasn’t actually the snail itself that did Ballard in, however. It was due to a parasitic worm in the snail called rat lungworm disease. This worm is particularly harmful to humans because its larvae can spread to the brain, causing eosinophilic meningitis. This causes the membranes of the brain and spinal cord to swell. Ballard eventually died in 2018.

What makes this death especially haunting is the fact that Ballard retained his mental faculties until his death. He was fully aware of his surroundings. Making matters worse, his friends had to live with the fact that they had all played a hand in his demise. We’ve all done dumb things on dares. Or done stupid stuff while young. Ballard paid the ultimate price for doing something that probably seemed silly and harmless in the moment.

Guy Is Pushed By Jealous Friend Down A Manhole Into Boiling Water, Dies Later From Scalding Burns

This one is so bad it even gave a New York medical examiner nightmares.

In 2002, Sean Doyle, a NYC bartender, went out drinking with his friend Michael Wright and Wright’s girlfriend. At some point during the night, Wright accused Doyle of flirting with his girlfriend. While details aren’t clear, Wright wound up throwing his friend down an 18-foot manhole. Unfortunately, there was a broken main at the bottom leaking out boiling hot water, and essentially turning the narrow confine into a pressure cooker. Trapped down below, Doyle was, according Dr. Judy Melinek, “steamed like a lobster.”

Making this even more horrific, steam burns don’t kill nerve endings the way regular burns do. This meant that Doyle likely suffered all the way until his death. Emergency services arrived to help, but they were unable to retrieve him due to the 300 degree temperatures down below. By the time his body was brought up, his skin was completely peeled off, and his internal organs were cooked.

Undoubtedly, this ranks pretty high on the list of worst ways to go. It disturbs me not just because of the graphic and painful death, but that it started over an argument. Some men can become stupidly jealous and violently possessive when it comes to their girlfriends. Wright was later charged with second-degree murder. But there are conflicting reports about what really happened. His girlfriend maintains that the two men were just roughhousing, and that Doyle only accidentally fell in the manhole. I don’t know about that. If the girlfriend is covering for her boyfriend, that makes the whole thing even more tragic.

Well, that’s enough dwelling on death. I may never leave my house again. From now on, I’ll be staying indoors 24/7 wrapped in bubble wrap and seated on a nice plush sofa.

When Will You Disappear From Memory?

On October 11, 2024October 11, 2024 By Dean BrooksLeave a comment

Calculating my “Moment of Oblivion.”

They say you aren’t totally dead until your name is spoken for the last time.

For some it will take longer than others. Much, much longer. I can’t imagine we’ll stop saying Julius Caesar’s name anytime soon. He did pay a high price of admission into Club Immortality, though, what with all those knife wounds in the back.

Or Genghis Khan. Especially when he was such a prolific baby daddy that even today 1 in 200 men in the former Mongol Empire share a common male ancestor — which was almost certainly him. Guy must have had a hell of a Tinder profile.

Adolf Hitler will be hanging around for a bit. History is filled with noteworthy murderers. In fact, that seems to be your best bet for a ticket into the remembrance afterlife. We won’t soon forget Joseph Stalin or Mao Zedong either.

Most of your prominent dictators, kings, barbarians, and major leaders down through history, good or evil, beloved or reviled, will likely live on in the collective consciousness. Ozymandias’ statue may have crumbled in the desert, but hey, we’re still talking about him, aren’t we?

After that, the list starts to really narrow. It’s mainly inventors and scientists like Isaac Newton or Albert Einstein. Influential artists and thinkers like Shakespeare, Socrates, or Leonardo da Vinci. Explorers such as Christopher Columbus or Neil Armstrong. Religious figures like Jesus Christ or Muhammad. Then a smattering of other human highlights. Your Typhoid Marys (Mary Mallon), Rube Goldbergs, and Roland the Farters.

Yes, Roland the Farter was a real person, and apparently, he was gastronomically quite skilled.

Sadly, I don’t think many Medium writers will make the recall cut past even 100 years from now, except maybe Barack Obama and other big names who happen to have accounts here. Sure, some server in a cave somewhere will probably have all of us stored away. But how desperate will those of 2124 be to read through hot takes from the 2020s? How many bestselling books or films do you know of from the 1920s? I can think of one off the top of my head — The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald.

It’s a sobering thought experiment calculating your “moment of oblivion.” Mine is probably around the year 2135. I was born in 1982. The average male life span in the United States is 80. I’m currently childless. If I were to have two children in the next ten years, my kids might be in their 30s by the time I die.

Everyone remembers their parents and talks often about them. So, at the least, I’d be remembered by my own kids until they pass away, possibly sometime early next century.

If my kids have children of their own, my grandkids would certainly remember me, assuming I live long enough to get to know them. Everyone loves their grandparents. If my future grandkids are born while my kids are in their late 20s or early 30s, they would live until around 2135.

After that, it starts to get real murky. Very few people ever know their great grandparents personally. Often you just know their name and some basic biographical information. Maybe a few family members have stories about them. I have no idea who my great great grandparents even are.

So, that’s it then. 2135. My Moment of Oblivion.

I could improve on my date with nothingness by living longer. Maybe I add ten more years then. Or I could have more kids than just two. Working against me there is the fact that I’m starting late. But if I were to live to my 90s and have five kids, and my kids have a bunch of kids, then perhaps I could stretch my remembered self to the mid-2100s. I’d have to be a real prodigious procreater like Genghis Khan to make it past the next century via genetic legacy alone.

If I don’t have any kids, then I’d be reliant on my nieces and nephews to remember their favorite uncle. That would get me no farther past sometime early next century. Aunts and uncles are rarely remembered past one generation.

Aside from being remembered by family, I’m left with having to do something extraordinary to make a big enough impact. I’m not a king, scientist, or explorer. I’m just a writer. Even if I were to write a huge bestselling book — like the next Jaws or Gone Girl — that probably only buys me notoriety for a few decades. The only two authors living today that I could see still being remembered in 100+ years solely due to their writing and not counting their offspring are Stephen King and J. K. Rowling. I don’t see myself getting that lucky.

Of course, if I were to somehow manage to kill millions of people, that’d be sure to keep me in everyone’s thoughts for centuries to come. But I’d have to really raise the bar there. I’m competing with some heavy hitters. Hitler killed around 17 million. Stalin whacked 23 million. Mao had a whopping 49–78 million extinguished.

How many would I need to kill to ensure I stick around forever? 80 million? 100 million? I think I’d better shoot for 100 million just to be sure. That’s a nice round number.

No, I think I’m okay with 2135 being my final goodbye year. That’s still 153 years of being thought about and talked about. Not a bad run for an average person.

When do you think your Moment of Oblivion will be?

Pet Semetary (Or, That Creepy Ancient Indian Burial Ground BEHIND the Pet Semetary)

On February 9, 2023February 9, 2023 By Dean Brooks3 Comments

Fiction Affliction #1: A review of Stephen King’s 1983 meditation on death, despair, and the heavy cost for refusing to let sleeping dogs (and cats) lie.

Realtor: Hi, yes, Dr. Creed? Oh, I have the perfect house for you and your family.

Dr. Creed: I can’t wait to see it. My wife and two young kids, whom I’m dragging from their lifelong home in Chicago to Bangor, Maine for some reason, can’t wait to move.

Realtor: Well, firstly, and I just want to get this out of the way, it’s located right by a super busy road where giant trucks driven by idiots who don’t pay attention come rumbling by at 100 mph every minute of every day, all day and all night. There’s no fence or barrier by the road, so it would be really, really dangerous if you happened to have a kid who’s highly mobile and not old enough to recognize the danger of crossing the street yet. Is that okay with you?

Dr. Creed: Absolutely. I am a doctor.

Realtor: Also, and I just want to throw this minor little thing out there. But there’s a pet cemetary behind the house.

Dr. Creed: Oh, that’s interesting.

Realtor: Yes, many of the pets killed by those trucks over the years are buried there.

Dr. Creed: Well, I’ve been meaning to finally talk to my daughter about the facts of death, so this will be a good conversation starter.

Realtor: Great! Let’s schedule a showing for tomorrow!

This is the inaugural piece in a new series that I’m tentatively calling Fiction Affliction. This series will be mostly devoted to book reviews. But I’ll also be including screenplays, short stories, and basically anything EXCEPT TV shows and movies. There are enough people out there talking about stuff in the frame rate medium. I’m more interested in the written word. The boring black and white.

I’m also a novelist myself, having self-published two books, with more on the way. Fiction Affliction is my way of learning and reflecting on various novels and other written works I’ve read, and sharing them with everyone else. All wrapped in an informal, humorous, and always brutally honest style with a touch of irreverence. I’m trying to focus on stuff that’s either lesser known or niche, or if it’s by a popular author, something that’s not one of their marquee works. Pretty much everything by King is popular, obviously. Especially these days, when Hollywood is instantly making everything he writes into a movie. They even made a movie off a story he wrote about evil grass. The Maine man truly is the Main Man. You’ve got a better chance avoiding getting hacked to pieces by Jason Voorhees while you’re in the middle of having sex than not seeing some obscure King work get made into a series or feature film.

Pet Semetary was always a back burner King book for me. Over the years I’ve read pretty much all of his classics. The Shining. The Stand. Carrie. The Dead Zone. Salem’s Lot. I even read Insomnia, a forgotten door stop about some guy who somehow develops super powers because he can’t sleep. I still haven’t read IT, though I’ve tried twice. Clowns don’t scare me, and King is especially rambly in that one.

But Pet Semetary. That’s more like a cult classic of King’s. It’s not his best, though I’ve often seen on Reddit threads people mention it as their favorite. I can see why. It’s his purest meditation on death. The story has a cozy and intimate feeling notwithstanding. It’s like being slowly strangled by a warm, fuzzy blanket. There are some passages that are not only great in a literary sense, but also scary as hell. The chapter where Louis’s daugher Ellie comes to him and asks him about death, for example. And how that interaction triggers his wife Rachel to remember her horrifying ordeal with her dying sister Zelda.

The whole Zelda sequence could have almost been a seperate novel in and of itself. This was King in his prime. Back when he was a cocaine-fueled boozing maniac pounding away at the typewriter in the basement, and everyone was afraid he was going to finally go nuts and hack his family to pieces.

Man, I miss that guy. He used to riff off little stories within his stories like the way a carnival barker raffles off tickets to some ungodly (and unsafe) amusement park ride. You think of the numerous stories telling the history of the teleportation equipment in his short The Jaunt. That’s a story that should get reviewed on here at some point.

King used to be encyclopediac. His books used to be little labyrinthes packed to the gills with all kinds of frightening shit.

Now King is just another Twitter tweeting avatar.

Which reminds me. Fuck Twitter. Not only is it a morphine drip distraction, but I hate how it has sucked in so many great writers into its event horizon. I think social media has a way of watering down good writing, and reducing otherwise solid writers to time-wasting clout-chasers. How many good books have been lost, their creative energy transformed into worthless tweets? You hear that giant sucking sound? That’s the sound of Twitter sucking all the brain cells out through everyone’s ear holes.

Anyway, back to Pet Semetary. A novel about a doctor named Dr. Louis Creed who moves his family from the Land of Deep Dish Pizza to Bangor, Maine in order to take a job at a local university as the school physician. He moves into a nice house in the country, which happens to be right alongside the most dangeorous road in the universe. Where giant trucks come lumbering along regularly, killing pets and other wildlife. But those trucks are nothing compared to the creepy AF pet cemetary tucked behind his house down a trail. But even that’s small potatoes compared to the ancient Indian burial ground that’s located behind the pet cemetary. Man, if this doctor prescribes drugs as well as he picks houses, he’ll have you taking shots of hydrochloric acid for the common cold.

I am a slow reader. I like taking my time. Or as I like to call it, my eyes prefer a tantric experience with the ink and paper. But I have to say, Pet Semetary really slowed me down. The book is like wading through molasses wearing cement shoes. And I think that’s because it’s a deceptively heavy book. It’s all about death and despair. It’s unrelentingly sad. It’s an existential crisis hiding within the trappings of mass market horror. There’s a subtle nihilism that creeps through. Digging deeper, it’s not only about death. It’s about the fact that after death there really is nothing. Just a void. And to try to cheat that — to bring something or someone back — is just fooling yourself. The hardest part about losing someone isn’t just that they’re gone. It’s that you’re never going to see them again. That there is no happy afterlife where we’ll see each other. It’s as if King is saying the scariest part of life isn’t anything supernatural or otherwordly. It’s the simple fact that when the light goes out, that’s it. And all you can do is accept it.

Pet Semetary is a gut punch. It’s a middle finger to the religious minded confident in their inevitable Laz-E-Boy recliner cloud awaiting them in the sky post their final raspy breath. It’s about denial and the consequences of refusing to accept reality. It’s also a metaphor for psychological trauma, as seen in the Zelda story. Of the inability to get past some tragedy or loss.

This book hurts to read. Because you’ll find yourself thinking about loved ones you lost. It’s a smart choice to explore the concept via the death of Ellie’s cat Winston Churchill, or Church. Everyone’s lost a pet at some point. I found myself thinking of my beloved Himalayan ragdoll Napoleon Cataparte. A cat who who was there for me my last year in high school, my first few years in college, and then my entry into the real world. Napoleon was a regal feline with a strong personality. He was a boss. I loved that cat. When he got on in years, we were fortunate to find a home for him with a nice older lady who only adopted Himalayan cats. He passed away peacefully one evening, perched atop his lounge by the window. A king on his throne to the end. Long live Napoleon.

“KING NAPOLEON CATAPARTE” (Made with Dream by WOMBO)

Structurally, Pet Semetary is kinda wonky. The first act takes up almost the first half of the book. The second act is basically the event and aftermath of Gage’s (Creed’s two-year old son) death. And then the third act is told in one pulse-pounding one-night sequence where the doctor goes to dig up the corpse of his son and rebury him in the Indian burial ground so the toddler can be reanimated. The whole sequence is written like a heist.

Which makes me wonder…have the Ocean’s 11 writers ever considered putting a horror element in their franchise? Like instead of robbing just another boring bank or casino, they have to rob an Egyptian pyramid, or a South American crypt? And George Clooney gets killed by a mummy or something?

Anyway…

Pet Semetary is deeply morbid, depressing, soul-crushing stuff. It’s one of those novels that goes there. What else can be said about a book that features a two-year old getting run over by a semi-truck in grisly detail. It’s every parent’s worst nightmare.

There’s also one hell of a stinger at the very end.

I recommend Pet Semetary, but only if you’ve got a cast iron mind. Reading it is like swallowing a razor blade.

40 Isn’t “Over the Hill,” But Death Does Move in Next Door

On November 3, 2022November 3, 2022 By Dean BrooksLeave a comment

And occasionally knocks on your door late at night.

Photo by Renato Danyi from Pexels: https://www.pexels.com/photo/grey-skulls-piled-on-ground-1096925/

It’s strange how when you’re really young — early to late teens, even 20s — the idea of being a middle-aged adult seems ridiculously remote and impossible.

Getting older is for other people. Your parents, for example, who were born ancient. Or your aunts and uncles. Or that one teacher who’s been teaching algebra since the Apollo moon missions. People to whom the rules of life apply. Not you, of course.

And then it happens. Slowly, steadily, with the inevitability of Michael Myers stalking you across the neighborhood.

For sure, some people age better than others. I remember always being told that when I turned 30, that’d be “it.” Meaning I’d suddenly develop a massive beer belly, joint and back problems, lose my hair, incur all sorts of health problems, you name it. Thirty was the “turning midnight” in the Cinderella story of aging, apparently.

As it turned out, I actually lost weight and kept it off during my 30s. I still have all my hair, with some noble grays. And with the exception of a nasty flu back in 2019, I’ve hardly had any health issues. I never even caught Covid.

Actually, I ended my 30s in better shape than when I started them.

I’ve worked hard and tried my best to live a healthy life. Mostly, that just comes down to eating a proper diet and getting regular exercise. And maybe some genetics. I maintain that the rate at which you age is partially due to choices you make about whether to live a healthy life or not.

Six months ago I turned 40. A supposedly major milestone of a year. True middle-age. “Over the hill,” etc.

Though if we’re being technical, you won’t know when you’re truly middle-age until you’re dead, after which it won’t really matter. If you were to die at 40, then 20 was actually your true “middle-age.” Whereas if you die at 100, then 50 is your middle-aged point.

Statistically, men tend to die around 80 years old. So, it’s fair to say 40 is half-way to the grave.

And honestly, that’s exactly how it feels.

For me, forty is less a physical feeling than a mental one. For sure my body’s not as limber and springy as it was even five years ago. I am stronger. I still lift weights, and fit into jeans with a 32″ waist. I’m in better shape now than I’ve ever been.

A co-worker recently expressed shock when I revealed I was forty, telling me I look 30. I don’t actually believe him. Maybe I could pass for 35. But 30? I don’t think so.

He credited “clean living” for my youthful appearance. And he’s not wrong. I don’t drink, smoke, or do drugs. I’m all about boring sobriety. But also — and perhaps most importantly — I don’t have kids, and I’ve never been married. I’ve avoided a lot of major pitfalls many sadly fall into by middle-age. A crushing mortgage. A nasty divorce and alimony. Debt and work pressures. I’m debt-free, and live a quiet, modest life.

Physically, I may be aging slower. But mentally, that’s another matter. And I’m not talking about the capacity to learn or the brain’s elasticity. I read and write a lot. I’m curious about the world. My neurons are still growing and forming attachments.

The problem is that as you age you start to give less of a shit about anything, because little excites you. Life starts to lose its flavor, so to speak, until it feels like bland day-long chewed bubblegum. Increasingly less surprises you. The patterns of life start to become repetitive. It’s like sitting down to watch a bad movie and by the halfway point you’ve already figured out all the twists and turns.

I don’t mean you know everything. Not at all. Quite the opposite. It’s just that more and more matters less and less to you overall. It’s a kind of weird Nihilism Fog. It’s not that nothing matters. It’s that you see the long-term futility in a lot of human behavior, especially your own actions. Man’s miniscule place against monolithic, eternal Nature. It’s why I don’t get excited or care much about politics. Everything’s cyclical. One political party will dominate this year, and next year it will be the next one. Rinse, wash, repeat. Big deal.

This can make it hard to stay motivated. You feel like you’re going through the motions. You’re like a robot sometimes. With rare exceptions, very little excites you. If your mood was a echocardiogram, it would mainly be a flat line with ocassional bounces and spikes. Outwardly, you keep on a smiling, social-friendly mask, of course. Inside, you look like the faces on those Easter Island heads.

Example: I was at a job fair a while back, and the recruiter — this late 20s, maybe early 30s looking guy — was excitedly telling me about all the great company benefits. Like 401(k), life insurance, annual pay raises, and three-tier health options. You know, benefits that virtually EVERY company under the fu*king sun offers these days. I smiled and nodded, amused that he could maintain such fervor for corporate minutiae, or at least pretend to.

Another example: Very few movies look worth watching. If you are over 35 and are still a big fan of Marvel/Star Wars and Disney stuff, I don’t understand you. There’s been one new movie this year I’ve really liked: Top Gun: Maverick. Because it actually made me feel something. I suspect Avatar 2 will have been worth the wait, too.

The older you get, the harder it is to be impressed. On the flip side, you really value those rare moments when things are done right.

I suppose the doldrums of middle-age are what drive so many people to make sudden life changes. Career pivots. Divorces or marriages. Having children. Moving to another place. Going back to school. Picking up a new hobby. Cutting off old friendships. Building new ones. Changing appearances. Losing weight. Exercising. Or other, more extreme things, like joining a cult or religion. Anything to stimulate, and simulate the effervesence of youth.

A mid-life crisis is like racing around trying to put out a fire that doesn’t exist, except in your head.

But it’s not without reason. The aging process is simply Death moving closer. When you’re an adolescent or teen, the Grim Reaper isn’t even in the neighborhood, usually. He’s in the next town over. By your 20s, Death’s living in the upscale part of town, where all the “real adults” and old people live. By your 30s, he may have moved to your block. But by your 40s, he’s next door. You see him barbecuing on the weekends. He waves to you as you leave your driveway to go to work. Sometimes, he even plays pranks on you. Late at night you might hear a banging on your door. When you go to answer, there’s no one there. You know it’s Death, of course. But it’s not like you’re going over to his house to confront him. He’s a big guy. Bald. Drives a Harley. Always wears black. He’s just not the kind of guy you mess with.

When you’re 50, Death moves into your house. And no, he ain’t paying rent. By 60, he’s sleeping in the top bunk above you. By 70+, you’re bedmates. After that, well, you become a little more than just friends.

These days, everyone is so focused on stopping the physical effects of aging. Everyone wants to look young. And with exercise, a good diet, sunscreen, lots of hydration, avoiding vices, and maybe a touch of plastic surgery, you can Dorian Gray yourself a good long while. Look at Tom Cruise. That guy has looked 35 since 1997.

But stopping the mental effects of aging is much tricker. And while I suspect it involves a bit of self-deception or purposeful distraction, I applaud those who are able to pull it off.