Double Nickels

Run, rabbit run
Dig that hole, forget the sun
And when at last the work is done
Don't sit down
It's time to dig another one

For long you live and high you fly
But only if you ride the tide
And balanced on the biggest wave
You race towards an early grave

^{Breathe  |  Pink Floyd  |  Dark Side of the Moon  |  © 1973 Roger Waters}

The Daily Grind
It’s a complex dance, yet one so familiar and well-practiced that we rarely stop to even give it the briefest of consideration in our work-a-day world.

Gotta go to work.

The biblical account of Adam and Eve explains that it’s The Curse in action; the realization of God’s decree in Genesis 3:19, upon Adam and Eve’s expulsion from The Garden:

By the sweat of your face
You will eat bread,
Till you return to the ground,
Because from it you were taken;
For you are dust,
And to dust you shall return.

^{New American Standard Bible}

Some of us live to work, but all of us in one form or another, work to live.

For most in modern society, whether you’re a member of the nine-to-five, swing shift, or graveyard crowd, we all put in our time — figuratively or literally — punching the clock. We scratch out our existence; some of us working for The Man, and others of us, being The Man.

But while such harsh metaphors of employment are hardly the reality for most of us blessed to live here in 21st century America, the concept has, and always will be, relative.

And even as Roger Waters’ brilliantly poignant lyrics to the nature of our everyday existence speak to the more-or-less metaphysical aspect of the treadmill we call subsistence, yet another rock group, the 80s hair band, Loverboy ironically distills the concept to a much more immediate, corporeal, single statement (although they probably didn’t intend it that way):

Everybody’s workin’ for the weekend.

And indeed we are.

Ever consider the paradox in how many of us view our jobs? Every Monday morning we wish it was Friday, and every Sunday night we wish the weekend was just one day longer. Finally, one day we wake up and realize that every work week we pray will pass quickly is five less days we have left in our lives to enjoy; to experience; to celebrate who we are and why we’re here.

Kinda sobering, ain’t it?

Workin’ Fool
I hope I’m not overstepping my bounds in assuming that most people think as I do on the subject, but if you don’t, I’m sorry, however, I’m actually quite happy for you at the same time.

It’s just that after 33 years of official membership in the working class, supporting myself and my family, and being inexorably connected to the mass vibe of America’s commerce machine, I believe I’m qualified to go out on a limb and say that, given the chance, the vast majority of Americans would opt out of their usual existence if they could. In other words, we work because we have to, not because we want to.

Of course there are exceptions to the rule. Some people do indeed love their jobs and hopefully, not everyone hates what they have to do to earn a buck. I, for example have always loved the fact that I’ve basically made a career out of doing what I’ve always wanted to do. That’s a real advantage in the quality of life department for yours truly and something I am indeed grateful for.

But even I know that the notion of the truism, “Find the job you truly love and you’ll never ‘work’ a day in your life,” is little more than type-A-personality bullshit. Most of us are far too lazy and much too selfish to ever choose spending 40-60 hours per week making someone else rich over logging that same amount of ‘me time’ in its place

Than being said, just because I’m not stuck digging ditches for a living — not that there’s anything wrong with that, necessarily, mind you — don't think for a minute that if I ever won the lottery (or some other nonsensical pipedream that’ll never happen), that I’d miss the work-a-day grind for a millisecond.

No way, Jose.

I’m of an age in which I’ve accomplished more than enough to make me feel as though my life has been worthwhile. And while I might not be counting the days until retirement (mainly because it’s been a long time since I took math in school and I’ve sorta forgotten how to count that high), I am definitely looking forward to it when that time finally does arrive.

I still can’t drive…55
So why the even-more-intense-than-usual navel gazing post today, you ask? Well, today is my birthday, and for the first time I can honestly say, I’m not all that ‘happy’ about it.

I’m none too thrilled about the speed at which time is passing. I’m not jazzed that longing for time to think and to write and to do the things that I want to do is now, essentially tantamount to hitting the fast-forward button on my lifespan; skipping over the ‘now’ in favor of the ‘later,’ when life will be simpler; when I no longer have to run the treadmill; when I’ll likely be too old to really enjoy it.

And I guess what really bugs me is that I’ve finally reached the point in which I’ve become the person I always used to make fun of; the one who insists on re-celebrating his or her 29th birthday every year; the one who wants time to stop instead of embracing old age gracefully.

For me, this is the big one. Fifty was a piece ‘a cake; my life almost literally began at Forty; I was still trustworthy when I hit the big Three-OH.

But 55? Please. Somebody cue Sammy Hagar.

This is the day I officially hit the backside of the hill; this is the year in which all that follow it begin to accompany exponentially fewer chances that I’ll live to see another one.

I knew this day would come; I just thought I’d be more prepared; I always figured that I’d feel the part a little more — you know, like that I actually feeling 55?

Instead, it’s like someone went back to 1991 and threw me into some damned time machine; then dropped me off here in 2011 and announced, “Congratulations, AJ, you’ve hit double-nickels. You now have 22.9 years left to live — if you’re lucky. So sorry that the last 20 years have been a blur; the next 20 will go even faster.”

My Forties: The Good Ol’ Days?
I can clearly remember thinking about Y2K back in the 70s and 80s, realizing that I’d be the ‘ancient’ age of 43 when we finally hit the turn of the century. “Wow,” I thought. “I’ll be so old by then. I wonder how I’ll feel...” (as I imagined myself all wrinkly, with gray hair and liver spots).

Hell, the first five years of the New Millennium were among the best years of my life! Outside of my early 20s, there were no better ‘good ol’ days’ than my early-to-mid 40s. I felt a lot of things back then, but never, ever, did I feel old.

And to be honest, I still don’t; and that’s the problem — the calendar tells me otherwise.

Of course, I’m being more than a little melodramatic here. Again, everything is relative and particularly in our culture, hitting your mid-fifties is hardly tantamount to loitering at death’s door. Nonetheless, to ignore reality at this point in life and continue thinking that I’ll simply go on, unaffected by time’s incessant march is the most absolute of follies.

However, I’m not looking for a pity-party on my birthday. After all, there’s nothing magical — or fatal — about the age 55. It’s just that it’s such a major mile-marker on the road of my life that I just feel the need to acknowledge finally coming to realize that feeling like I’m still 32 doesn’t mean that I am.

My American Dream
Nonetheless, contrary to my heretofore sparkling optimism, this really isn’t a woe is me kinda post. It’s actually a celebration; a celebration of simple reality despite my not-so-simple way of dealing with it. I am actually much happier and satisfied with how my life has turned out than that twenty-something kid who used to wonder about Y2K ever imagined he would be.

Have all of my dreams come true? Hardly; but a lot of them did. And don’t get me wrong, I haven’t stopped dreaming. It’s just that now, my goals are more practical, and a lot less costly — both physically and spiritually. I’ve made a lot of mistakes; my greatest ongoing dream is to never make them again.

At this point, I figure I yam what I yam, financially; I’m firmly ensconced in the middle class and that’s more than okay with me. There are no Mercedes in my future — not that I have ever really wanted to own one. I have no more dragons to slay; no more mountains to climb. And to be perfectly honest, I never really had many to begin with. I’ve always been much more about keeping my life simple; about being happy, and humble, and most of all, realistic.

I’ve never made a lot of money, but I’ve been rich for quite awhile.

My American Dream is my wife, Michelle, my kids, Shawn and Amy, and the aforementioned fact that I accomplished my dream career; twice. I may not be the best at what I do, but that’s okay too; something else I did years ago filled that oftentimes silly compulsion that we Americans seem to feel is our birthright.

I was a collegiate national champion in my sport of choice, gymnastics. I performed a skill on the rings that, in the opinion of a few people who would know, has never been performed in the same way by anyone else in history. And that, right there, was more than most people would require to feel as though they’ve accomplished something.

But before you wag your head and say, “Oye, there goes AJ bragging about gymnastics again,” let me stop you and say that you’re missing the point. I don’t walk around the house, wearing my gymnastics medals nor is it the first thing I bring up in conversation with the man on the street. I don’t need to employ athletic accomplishment as a crutch to make me feel special, but there’s no denying that it does. I don’t live on past glories, but I am still fulfilled by them in a most wonderfully contented way.

However, that’s nothing compared to how rich and how blessed I feel to be married to Michelle, now for 32 and a half years and for having successfully raised two incredible, beautiful, and talented children. Buddy, that’s worthy of bragging about, right there. Michelle is the game-changer in my life; she is the reason you should ALL be bummed out that you’re not me.

Comparatively speaking, my rusty gold gym medal doesn’t hold a candle to that accomplishment.

The cynics among you may dog me for being so easily satisfied; for not pushing myself more, but you can’t touch how truly happy I am to have what I have and to have done what I have done. I may not have all the toys that often mark the success of men my age, but I also don’t have the bills, and the heartburn, and the pressure that follows them around like a pet.

I have fought the good fight; I have kept the faith, and I’m not finshed yet.

I am 55 and I am content.

It may all be downhill from here, but at least I know I’ll enjoy the ride.

*     *     *     *     *

finis