I Hope I Die Before I Get Old, Part Two

Image by Ralf Designs from Pixabay

This weekly column consists of letters written to my perspicacious progeny — the Stickies — to advise 'em now and haunt them after I'm deleted.

Trigger Warning: This column is rated SSC-65: Sexy Seasoned Citizens   

About 

Glossary 

Featuring {Dana}: Persistent auditory hallucination and charming literary device 

"Remember, Caesar, thou art mortal." -Ray Bradbury (from Fahrenheit 451) 

Dear Stickies (and gentlereaders),  

In part one, I declared that there's bad old and that there's good old. I explained bad old thusly:

"I don't ever want to be so old that maintaining my personal financial and ideological status quo is the primary reason I keep getting out of bed in the morning -- the pursuit of purpose and meaning, and fun, be damned. 

I know/have known/know of a lot of people who are younger than me but who are actually much older than I am. I'd rather be dead than be that sort of old."

{I know that I still think quoting yourself as often as you do is a bit creepy.}

Now, as to good old...permit me to begin with a disclaimer. 

Not that it's going to stop me, but unless/until/if you're good old you're not going to fully understand what I'm on about. Also, like many, perhaps most complex/subtle things, it can be pointed to or hinted at with mere words but must be experienced to be truly understood. 

Placing things in their proper perspective are words to live by, particularly nowadays. The seemingly ever-increasing speed of daily life + the never-ending information tsunami + the time-honored media (old and new versions) strategery called If it Bleeds it Leads = a seriously skewed perspective. 

{So we're skewed?}

Not necessarily, Dana. We can (try) to live like a stoic philosopher, or a recovering drunk/druggie, and change what we can while making the best of the rest. 

Big BUT, never forget that nirvana/heaven/utopia is ALWAYS going to be just around the next corner so (try) to relax, and make the best of the ride. It's going to be over much sooner than you think. 

If you're fortunate enough to become good old, which doesn't necessarily (but commonly does) have anything to do with being physically old, you will be blessed with Cosmic Geezer(ette) Perspective (CGP). 

"Memento mori (Latin for 'remember that you have to die') is an artistic or symbolic trope acting as a reminder of the inevitability of death." -Wikipedia

I first encountered the term when I bumped into it somewhere and read something about medieval monks keeping a skull in their cell to serve as a memory aid. Remember dude, heaven or hell is waiting for us all, best not wander off Straight&Narrow Blvd.

However (the Wikipedia article provides a broad overview), this "symbolic trope" is common all over the globe in widely varying cultures, has been for thousands of years, and doesn't necessarily refer to following all the Rules&Regs of a given ideology to obtain paradise forever and ever, amen. 

For many H. sapiens, including me, it serves as a reminder that no matter what comes next, or doesn't, you will eventually be deleted. 

{Not once H. sapiens figure out how to upload themselves to the cloud!}

Let's hope so, who wouldn't want to spend eternity as a ghost in a machine? Get away from that plug! Achieving CGP means — that no matter what's next, or isn't — acceptance. You now know in your very bones, so to speak, that you're gonna die, and you can live with that.   

For the uninitiated, looking death in the eye, can, and often does, bring on a panic attack. Holy shyte! I could wake up dead tomorrow... I could drop dead any second! I should do something! 

If you're one of those demented people who think H. sapiens are to "Gaia" as terminal cancer is to normal H. sapiens you'll be thrilled, right?

If you're one of those fortunate people (more or less) confident that heaven awaits, you'll double down on following the Rules&Regs as best you can and hope God is a forgiving sort with a sense of humor. 

If you're an atheist or an agnostic and have a panic attack you'll be able to easily reason yourself out of it, right? If not, medical science has developed a plethora of specialists and medications to assist you in living with this and any number of similar problems.   

CGP, on the other hand, is sorta/kinda enlightenment for the masses. The Sanskrit word nirvana literally translates to "blowing out." You know how when some really intense experience (good or bad) ends and you experience a deep, heartfelt sigh, PHEW! (for lack of a better word)?  

It's like that...combined with acceptance and a new perspective. The bad news is that it will come and go. The good news is that it keeps reasserting itself like an alarm clock with a snooze function that can't be disabled. I think that if it becomes permanent you will be enlightened, or close enough.      

If you were born with Must Be Used By _______ stamped on your bum how would you spend your time? 

{Say what?}

If you achieve CGP you won't know what your use-by date is but you will know you have one, it's inevitable, and that it might be any time now. It will feel, um...really real, as opposed to vague, abstract, and waiting for you somewhere beyond a distant horizon.

The good news is that there's no bad news. 

You may be in no hurry to die, but you won't be particularly upset that you're going to. All of the passions, fears, goals, duties, dreams, etc. will still be there, but the pot will be simmering, not boiling. 

Clarity. You will know what you still have to do, what you really want to do, and will balance them as best you can fully aware that life is what happens to you while you're making other plans so there's no point in getting upset about it, although you still will from time to time. 

"Good" implies "bad" and vice versa. Together they constitute an inseparable whole and there's just no way around it. All that you can do really is all that you can do. 

Deep inhale, blow out, laugh at yourself.

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

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"I Hope I Die Before I Get Old" - Part One

    

Image by Bianca Van Dijk from Pixabay

This weekly column consists of letters written to my perspicacious progeny — the Stickies — to advise 'em now and haunt them after I'm deleted.

Trigger Warning: This column is rated SSC-65: Sexy Seasoned Citizens   

About 

Glossary 

Featuring {Dana}: Persistent auditory hallucination and charming literary device 

"An actuary is someone who can put a number on something that's not certain." -Karthick Balaji 

Dear Stickies (and gentlereaders),  

I think I've previously mentioned that I'm now old, but being old, I can't remember in what column. 

I can do a search and find out exactly where and when, but if a bunch of hits are returned (which is, I confess, what just happened) I don't have the patience to pursue the matter further. A lot of old men are like that. 

Besides, being old, I've no idea how much time I've got left and I don't want to drop dead while looking for an old column just so I can link to it. Links are fine for connecting to something a given writer thinks may actually be helpful to a given reader. 

However, a lot of links are provided under the oft-mistaken notion that readers are champing at the bit to read more of a particular writer's output. If they actually are, it's easy enough to find without bothering people who aren't.

{Wait-wait-wait. Is it champing or chomping at the bit?}

Here's a helpful link. Apparently either will do, but as best I can tell gramandos seem to favor champing.  

I was 39 for 38 years and although it could've been better, that was long enough for me to repeatedly learn that it could've been worse, much worse. Intuitively speaking, I've known for several years that at some point after I turned 70 I would officially be old. 

{Officially?}

Officially in my universe, not necessarily by any official definition as promulgated by The Fedrl Gummit or even the Society of Actuaries. 

I was right, I'll be 71 in a few months, and I'm now old. 

{Wait a second, there's a club for actuaries?} 

Absabalutely, in fact, there's more than one but the SOA is "...the largest professional society for actuaries in the world." I discovered this in passing while researching how much longer I can reasonably hope to keep on dancing while avoiding doing the mortal coil shuffle.  

 {So, how much time do you have left?}

According to the Northwestern Mutual Lifespan Calculator, I'll wake up dead when I'm 82. As it turns out, there are multiple lifespan calculators you can access via the Worldwide Web of Conflicting Knowledge.

I went with Northwestern Mutual's conclusion because their very name sounds like they know what they're doing, not to mention the neat little box in the upper right-hand corner of the screen with a projected age estimate that goes up (and down) as you answer a series of questions. 

Also, I'd much prefer to not live past the age of about 80, so 82 sounds about right. 

While investigating how much time I have left I discovered there's an algorithm loose in the world called life2vec developed by Danish researchers that's allegedly 11% more accurate at predicting when you'll buy the farm than more traditional methods. 

It's still in development but you'll be excited to know that the people involved claim it."...was able to make predictions about certain aspects of people’s lives, including how they might think, feel and behave..." 

Cool, right? I can't wait. 

{You know not everyone finds sarcasm to be an attractive personality trait. Hey...given that you hope to die before you get old, have concluded that you are old, but expect (hope?) to see 80, what are...?}

Well, Dana, there's good old, and then there's bad old. 

{Oh, okay, now I get it.} 

Recently coming across that famous line (that I've turned into a title) from that famous song was what motivated me to go a-googlin' to find out how much time I might have left in the first place, and to discover what Pete Townshend was thinking when he wrote the song, My Generation. 

For those of you too young, or too old...

Bad old, as I suspected and confirmed, is what the song is about

According to Wikipedia Mr. Townshend said in an interview in 1989 that when he wrote the song, old, to him, meant very rich. Personally, I wouldn't mind being obscenely rich, but I think I know where he was coming from. 

I don't ever want to be so old that maintaining my personal financial and ideological status quo is the primary reason I keep getting out of bed in the morning — the pursuit of purpose and meaning, and fun, be damned. 

I know/have known/know of a lot of people who are younger than me but who are actually much older than I am. I, and Pete Townshend, would rather be dead than be that sort of old. 

{So what's good old?}

A concept that requires its own column, which is why there will be a part two. Stay tuned. 

{I don't think they say stay tuned anymore, Pops.}

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

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My Sister of Charity

This nun was fun

Sr. Mary Clifford Soisson, SC

This weekly column consists of letters written to my perspicacious progeny — the Stickies — to advise 'em now and haunt them after I'm deleted.

Trigger Warning: This column is rated SSC-65: Sexy Seasoned Citizens   

About 

Glossary 

Featuring {Dana}: Persistent auditory hallucination and charming literary device 

"For a Catholic kid in parochial school, the only way to survive the beatings-by classmates, not the nuns-was to be the funny guy." -George A. Romero

Dear Stickies (and gentlereaders),  

Au Revoir France, I'm outta here. It's time to go home.   

Six of my first eight teachers were members of a Roman Catholic religious community that has roots extending back to 1809, the Sisters of Charity.

Sister Mary McGillicuddy changed my life, Miss Crabtree, not so much.

{Um, don't you mean Ms. Crabtree?}

No, Dana, I do not. I'm so old that Ms. Magazine wasn't born till the year after I graduated high school which, according to Wikipedia, is when that particular honorific caught on.

Now that name tags read, "Hello, my name is _______ and my personal pronouns are _______  " Ms. sounds/seems almost quaint.

{Oh, that's right! We're supposed to use Mx. now... I think.}

Sister Mary and Miss Crabtree are composite creations. S'ter Mary McGillicuddy represents the six nuns mentioned above. Miss Crabtree stands in for the two lay teachers I had in Catholic grade school. To a lesser extent, she represents the handful of female teachers I had in public high school. 

The word handful is a hint at how ancient I am and an indicator of my impending deletion.

{Chill, dude, 71 is hardly ancient.}

Thanks, Dana, but the speed at which so many radical changes have occurred (and continue) in my lifetime makes it seem like it.

The majority of my teachers in my public high school(s) were male but nowadays, nationwide, it's roughly 60% women, and 40% men. The principal and vice-principal of the two high schools I attended were both also members of the toxic sex, particularly the vice-principals (readers of a certain age smile/cringe knowingly).

However, this column is about a real Sister Mary, Sister Mary Clifford (Soisson is news to me) who was my teacher in seventh grade and whom I recently discovered died in 2010 at the age of 89.

She was my first and only "cool" nun. She was the first and only nun I liked. She was one of only two nuns I wasn't afraid of. She taught me, at the age of 12 — without meaning to — that nuns were just H. sapiens in peculiar clothes, not members of a separate, parallel species.

Sisters of Charity, New York -1965

Eileen Soisson  ("She was a faithful Steelers fan and had a great sense of humor.") was born on the 17th of July, 1920 in the Borough of Bellevue which borders and is butt up against, by gum by golly (sorry...) Pittsburgh. Like me, she attended Catholic grade school (hers still exists) and a public high school. She received a scholarship to Seton Hill (not Hall) College which was founded by the Sisters of Charity and she took her vows in January of 1942.

She was not only my seventh-grade teacher but also the school's principal. St. John the Evangelist was located on the Sou'Sidah Pittsburgh, across the street from the 12th Street playground.

For some reason, I was one of her pets. To this day I don't know why.


Being a pet of the principal meant that at least once a week I got out of class to accompany her when she borrowed one of the parish priest's cars to take care of some sort of business, usually grocery shopping for the convent that was right next to the school.

It was never just me — there was always at least one of the other boys, sometimes two depending on our mission — but it almost always included me. In retrospect, I know why it was always more than one boy but at the time neither I nor any of my classmates (that I'm aware of) noticed or cared.

Different era...

But, why me?

There was this girl, Eileen(?) Somebody, who from year to year was always a teacher's pet, but that made sense. She had a beautiful voice and the nuns were always finding excuses to get her to sing.

I didn't give it much thought at the time, just enjoyed it, rolled with it, took it for granted. Somehow, even the other boys in my class didn't razz me about it and normally this was a group that called each other out for everything


I have no idea what she saw in me, but I do know why I liked her so much. She was genuinely nice. She kept at least one foot in the real world at all times. She wore her vocation like a corsage, not a crown of thorns.

She told us she loved to drive and when we were out and about with her she behaved more like a kindly aunt than a schoolteaching nun. She'd answer our questions about parish politics, other nuns, her life, etc., questions we'd never think of asking in class (it just wasn't done) as honestly as she could.

But always diplomatically, always taking the high road, never stooping to gossip or backstab. Keeping the faith, as it were. Perhaps this was why I caught no crap from my peers — everyone liked her. She ran a tight ship but possessed not a trace of Crazy Nun Syndrome (CNS.

Please note: If you've ever been exposed to CNS, which was a common malady at the time, no explanation is required. If you haven't, no explanation I can provide will come close to describing it properly. 

Before Sister Mary Clifford, I had six teachers.

Four other Sisters of Charity, all afflicted with CNS; one lay teacher who was about 150 years old and another lay teacher, for second grade, who taught us how to curse (rather genteelly by today's standards) by conscientiously explaining which words we were not permitted to use under any circumstances.

Eighth grade: different school, radically different community (the 'burbs), unremarkable Ursuline nun. But I wasn't afraid of her thanks to Sister Mary Clifford's unintentional life lessons. I'm ashamed to admit I don't remember her name as she did an excellent job preparing us for Catholic high school knowing that intellectually speaking, things were about to get a lot more intense.

I do remember that she had tears in her eyes when she discovered I wouldn't be attending a Catholic high school. Callowyute that I was at the time, this baffled me. I think I get it now. Fortunately/unfortunately (it's complicated) my parents couldn't afford the increased tuition and transportation costs, so I was off to a public high school.

For the record, the nun who ran that school scared the hell outta me, as she would any right-thinking person. Crazy Nun Syndrome on steroids. But thanks to Sister Mary Clifford, as my faith slipped away, I knew that nuns were just people, sometimes very special people. Look at her eyes.

Poppa loves you,

Have an OK day

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Comments? I post links to my columns (and other stuff) on Facebook so that you can love me, hate me, or call to have me canceled or be publicly flogged.