All Things Must Pass

If you spend five or six hours with somebody in a car, you're bound to have one or two decent conversations. As much as I eschew the task of driving, it does allow for a certain amount of philosophical leeway. For example: I have not had many straightforward discussions about death since I was in college. So imagine my chagrin when, in the midst of our little family's sojourn into the snowy mountains of California, my wife asked me if I was afraid of dying.
"Yes," I replied without hesitation. the answer was quick enough, but the explanation took some time to ascertain. Jerry Seinfeld got a big laugh when he joked about a survey that found that the fear of public speaking ranks higher in most people's minds than the fear of death. "In other words, at a funeral, the average person would rather be in the casket than giving the eulogy." That's not me.
You might guess that the relative ease with which I put myself in front of microphones or onstage that I am without fear. This is not true. The man without fear is Daredevil, and I am no Matt Murdock. My fear of death is at once specific and pervasive. I believe it stems from the simple notion that I don't want to miss anything. I don't want to have to leave this party, even though it can be tedious and we occasionally run out of Coca-Cola. I have a very pointed need to see how things turn out.
Armed with this insight, my wife asked how I felt about growing old. Again, I didn't have to search for an answer: "I love it." I kept hearing John Denver singing in my head, "It turns me on to think of growing old." A hippie sentiment, but one that feels quite natural to me. Every gray hair and wrinkle serves as a reminder that I am still here. Sure, I make "old man" noises now when I have to bend over to pick up a stray Lego before it becomes embedded into my foot, but it seems like a pretty fair price to pay for the chance to hang around for a few more days. Weeks. Years.
When I was twenty, I had the luxury of being much more nihilistic. Live fast, die young and live a good looking corpse. It is only through the haze of many more years that I feel their value. Feeling the void left by those who went before me, I get anxious. Fearful.
That's why it was nice to hear my son call from the back seat: "How much longer til we get there?" Soon, but hopefully not too soon.