Things I thought would happen by the age of 40

I’d be married to a stunningly beautiful woman.

I’d have a dog. A big dog.

My job would be so intriguing it would strike envy in the hearts of the least envious.

The memory of no past behavior would make me wince.

My family would never bug the shit out of me.

No one would dispute my status as one of God’s chosen ones, much less my belief in said deity.

“Fuck” would no longer be the first word I said every morning.

I’d have published at least three books.

Concerns about job security would be a distant memory.

Gray nose hairs would be an as yet unknown concept.

Hamburger Helper would no longer be a diet staple.

I would be the boss of me.

My parents would be alive as would all my siblings.

Every other thing I said would be worth recording for the ages.

I’d play pool more often.

Farts would stop being funny.

I’d have this social interaction thing nailed down.

The extent of my foreign travel wouldn’t be Winnipeg.

I’d have it all figured out.

Life wouldn’t be this rich.

I have cataracts

One day they’ll pop out the old ones and drop perfect new ones in, lickety-split. That’s how the doc made it sound. My research makes it seem more complicated, but I have two brothers who’ve had the same problem at this young age so I know the world isn’t ending. Still, as the early morning windows fog with autumn chill I know a more permanent fog would be descending on my life if I had been born 100 years earlier. My options wouldn’t be complicated; they’d be stillborn in the cold, darkening arms of the world. It humbles me to be so at the whim of time and a horde of genes that goes about its business without an eye to the larger scheme of things. That scheme being me, the only universe those genes will ever know, yet so drastically smaller than that implies, so much more human.

Why pie will save the world

Wednesday night at the gym and I felt like the world had been pulled out from under me. I was that cartoon coyote stepping off a cliff and realizing with a goofy face that the desert floor was a mile directly below my feet. I could see a skull down there, blown clean by the wind, and I think it was mine. I felt irrelevant at work and my sexual fantasies consisted of simply having sex again. The latter is a tough feeling to have in a gym full of pretty young women sweating in skimpy outfits.

I drove home to a house with no electricity, so I took a quick shower and headed to Baker’s Square for dinner. The bus girl was a tall blond, slim and beautiful and half my age. I politely turned my head and moped some more. Being Free Pie Wednesday I ordered the special for dessert, a piece of peach raspberry. It looked so fresh and fluffy in the photo. The reality looked like pie splat.

My stomach was full and the fridge at home was losing frost so I had the pie splat boxed and drove to my friends house in south Minneapolis. I was hoping to share it with them but they were gone or simply ignoring the doorbell. They probably figured it was some asshole selling the Lord in a brochure. Being the last person on Earth with no cell phone I went home and put the pie splat in the fridge, which was working once again.

The magical thing is I felt better. The cliff floor had moved over to support my furry butt and the skull was gone. It will be back but that’s okay; yummy pie awaits in the fridge to soothe the pain.