My body, my angst

Carl Jung said he didn't encounter a single patient over the age of forty that wasn't obsessed with their own mortality. My obsession with my mortality was marked by two acute attacks. The first was hiking through the back-country of Gros Morne National Park, at the premature age of 38, when I realized, statistically speaking, my life was half over. That's me above, overlooking 10 Mile Pond and the Gulf of St. Lawrence, after I realized my mortality. I know, you actuarials out there are raising a fuss because life expectancies today don't reflect my life expectancy in 2046, and each year I live increases the likelihood of my seeing another year. Right. Point conceded. By the way, there's a 25% chance that John McCain will die during his second term in office. My American cousins, please, please, ponder that factoid before casting your ballot. Okay, shoot me, I lied. Go read this, but ignore the jack-ass tone: Sam Harris formulates great arguments without having to appeal to mouth-breathing troglodytes. No, no, no, I'm not a Sam Harris fan, but he is the populist, sometimes intelligent mouthpiece of the American, non-eschatological vote. Back to the plot. To take a less pedantic view, irrespective of whether or not my life was actually half over, from the aforementioned day forward, I have been acutely aware that my life will be half over (if not already) in the immediate, foreseeable future. So, I became a teacher.

The second jolt of mortality occurred last Christmas, as I faced the holiday alone and with the words of Rabbi Harold Kirschner from a podcast of CBC's Tapestry pounding in my ears: what do you do when the dream dies? Excuse me? Perhaps Chanukah is a more self-reflective holiday than Christmas, but I'm about to celebrate the birth of the Guy who said I could have ever-lasting life, I don't need to think about what I'm going to do with my dead dream, 40 years old and suffering, heroically I might add - Odysseus heroically - through loneliness and a loss of direction. And THAT was a run-on sentence. The Rabbi picked a pretty rotten time to pull the curtain on the Wizard that was ruling my life, but there was no denying that I was staring into the gaping, pitiless maw of a full-fledged mid-life crisis. Not the buy-a-Porche-911, shag-everything-that-moves crisis, no, this was a what-will-be-the-sum-total-of-my-life moment. Armed with Man's Search for Meaning and Seasons of a Man's Life I headed into Central America in search of my God. Those of you who understand my theology, explain that last sentence to those recoiling from the G-word. I digress. It's my job to digress. What I learned is that thirty always was the new twenties and if you hadn't grown up by forty (I think Carol King put it best) then it's too late baby now, it's too late. I weathered these storms, continued to dress and look the part of an 18-34 year old, whilst occupying the noggin of a sober, forty year-old. I got a job in Budapest. I got my finances in order. I was struggling to be grown up about things, but when you hit forty and you're single, I know everyone talks behind your back about your singularity. Shame on all of you. The burning questions I had to face after staring down my mid-life demons from January to August were as follows: how short should I cut my hair and where should I buy my clothes. Hair-wise, I'm holding out. There's a teacher at the school with way longer hair than me. Clothes? Dockers just ain't working. I'm a 41 year-old stuck in an 18 year-olds body. So I ask you: what would you find more embarrassing, having a paunch and buying Dockers at Sears or having gray hair and wrinkles and having to shop where the 18 year-olds shop? I had a bit of a crisis walking around Budapest's malls, trying on clothes for my age group that fit like mumus or potato sacks. Finally, I screwed up my courage and opted for fit over looking my age. As soon as I buy some black shoes, I'll send some pictures.

The blues jam was a non-starter. I've been too damn tired to get up before 11 am on the weekends (I'm up at 6 am every weekday: hey! I was working musician since the age of 17!!!) I've been practicing, oh, probably 5 days a week and the saxophone feels good again. I'm slightly chicken-shit about going to the jam session, but mostly intent on sounding like a sax player, not a sax owner. There's a huge difference. Yes, I'm aware this blog is getting increasingly recursive. Actually, my playing hasn't felt this strong since 2003 AND I think my horn has some leaks. Usually, when you're rusty, you just THINK the horn has leaks: the horn has some leaks.

That's it. No links (well, a couple), just self-indulgent stream of consciousness. I think I'll extend last week's survey because, frankly, it was a really good posting, especially the last link. So, please vote early and often.

Next week: My Outward Bound trip to Czech