Muerte

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
-Edna St. Vincent Millay

Taking the media hysteria slant into consideration, I don't think it's my imagination that quite a few celebrities chose this week to meet their makers. Or rather, they did not chose it; fate and circumstance chose for them. If they're older (like Ed McMahon or Gale Storm and perhaps shortly, Walter Cronkite), we can be respectful of their legacies but grateful for their full lives. If they're gone before their time (Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett and today, the very loud Billy Mays), we struggle with the misfortune of fate. At the heart of it, I think it only gives cause to wonder why people "around our age" can die. That dispels that whole immortality sense of security that we carry over from our teenage years.

Both Jackson and Mays were 50. I'm a few years shy of that milestone, but I'm pretty sure I won't be ready to shed this mortal coil (as lunky as it may be) when I turn 50. When I turn 50, I'm going to celebrate mightily. I've been putting money aside to have the mother of all hoe-downs for this milestone---I intend to rent an entire inn somewhere in New England, invite my dearest friends and have an outright party weekend. The last thing I'll be thinking about is where I want to be buried. And if I'm still alive then, I won't be.

I don't want to focus on death. There's eternity to do that. I like to think it's a reminder that every day of life should be embraced. Despite shitty commutes, the dumb assholes who cross your path, the very unbalanced life/work existence, jealousy that everyone else has a life far superior to yours, the desire to feel real love and moments of acute sadness, it's still wonderful to be alive.