The Curious Case of Thanks, Now I Wish I was Dead

There are a lot of things that serve to remind us that there is never enough time. New Year's Eve; birthdays; the death of a pet, grandparent, fictional character in a movie based on a short story written by someone who is also dead, etc.

"Carrie, did your mother tell you that Polly died?" Polly was the cat that my mother and I rescued from the clutches of an obese, smokey smelling woman at the local pet store. The 6-week-old kitten kept scurrying away from the woman and the woman kept picking her back up and placing her on the side of the cage, apparently amused at Polly's iron grip, the direct result of what must have been Polly's desire not to plummet 5 feet to what surely seemed like certain death. My mother and I bought the kitten and took it home to my grandparents' house, explaining that it would be good for them to have a pet, which it was, for eleven years, right up until the moment the vet on the other end of the phone explained to my grandmother and her sister (who lives with her) that Polly's red and white blood cells were low and that it might be something treatable or it might be cancer, but that they would need to wait for test results to be sure. "Kill it." I don't know if these were my grandmother's exact words, but, as they didn't even wait for the test results, they may as well have been. I don't blame my grandmother. She's been rather touchy about the C word ever since my grandfather died of prostate cancer three years ago. People fill your head with the idea that, once you get to a certain age, you sort of come to terms with mortality. Bullshit. My grandfather lived to be 83. He traveled the world, had a successful business, raised three children, saw those children get married and have children, he met two great-grandchildren. I never heard the man talk about regret or start a sentence with, "I wish I'd . . . " but that man was afraid to die right up until the end. "Yeah, grandma. Mom told me."

The cat dying, finishing out 2008, having a birthday, and seeing The Curious Case of Benjamin Button is too much of a reminder that the clock is ticking for one week. As a friend recently pointed out, "you grow up with your parents telling you that you're going to grow up to achieve great things. Then one day you realize that you're just like everyone else." I think Benjamin Button is supposed to teach us something about the way we experience life, but that's not what sticks with me. What sticks with me is, when Brad Pitt's character's daughter turns 1, he skips out on her and his partner and travels all over the world, supposedly it's what's best for everyone. That's the thing our parents don't tell us when they're filling our heads with the notion that, if we want, we can be doctors or astronauts or presidents. They don't tell us that getting what you really want out of life requires sacrificing the other things that you're supposed to really want out of life like family and paying the mortgage. I could write 10 hours a day if I didn't mind the idea of getting kicked out of my apartment and having to move back in with my mother. I could travel all over the world if I was okay with getting kicked out of my apartment and having to move back in with my mother upon my return. I can't actually think of any way to realize a life-long dream that doesn't involve having to move back in with my mother. That is except for the childhood dream of independence from my mother.  All I have to do to achieve that is keep working ten hours a day at a job I don't like, the job that I'm off to now. Take that, Brad Pitt.