In the next 30 years...

Dear Papa P,

At the risk of sounding melodramatic over colds, cough and a little fever, I write to you again about sickness.

Or, not entirely about sickness… Basing on sickness, but more about the future. Or health. Or wellbeing. Or death. Or whatever you think the whole point of my writing is.

Anyway…

I was riding a jeep home from a friend’s house feeling my nose get colder, heavier and feel a tinge of pain and thought about death. Yes. In that instance, I thought about death.

Don’t worry. It’s something quite usual with me. Not a lot of people know it, or, maybe, no one knows it but me, but I think of death a lot of times.

Some days, I wake up and think if I might die that day. I dream of me being in a coffin at my wake. Sometimes, when I jog, I’d fixate at a spot and think if that could possibly be the spot I’d lay on if I, all of a sudden, get a cardiac arrest while trying to be healthier.

Don’t worry. I don’t get scared about the thought. It’s just a curious thought. It’s the Nostradamus in me trying to predict the future. Or my lack of it, that is.

Going back…  I thought about death. And I wanted to think of how long I’ll be here.

Considering the odds, my dad died of colon cancer at age 68 and that I am an obese smoker with small feet and bad eyesight, we can factor in, colon cancer, lung cancer, bone problems and eye issues. 

I think the longest I’ll be here would be 60’s. Earliest I’d go will be 40’s, probably. I most probably will be here this whole decade.

I’m not sure. (But you must’ve guessed that.)

Just the same, I think it will be best to plan ahead.

Now, given that I may last only about 30 more years, or less, here, I have no intention to spend the rest of my entire life broke and tied to a 25-year mortgage. So, no, unless I, for some reason, get enough money to buy everything I want, I will not buy a house. I will rent a comfortable place that does not burn my whole paycheck and stay in it as long as I want – no commitments.

No, I will not quit my job and tell the whole damn world that money is not important. Because money IS important. And unless, I find a way to just hang around at a café all day and be assured that my bills, my rent, my travel expenses, my groceries and my coffee will get paid, I will not quit my job.

I might get crazy and leave my current job for something I want to experience that pays less. But I won’t do that without a stuffed savings account. If all else fails, I do not want to become a homeless ass who lives as a liability to society until the day I fortunately die or commit suicide.

So, I probably won’t leave my job. At least, not until I find a better one.

I would want to lose weight. Drop all the extra pounds. Now, I’m not into trying to look like Barbie. But with my big eyes and usually fuzzy hair, a big belly will make me look like a fuckin’ troll. And no, I don’t like that idea. So, I want to lose weight and fit into any shirt and, consequently, feel pretty – because my idea of self-worth is governed partly by society’s opinion of whether I am good-looking or not.

Also, just to make myself, and maybe others, think that I can do anything I want to. I can climb mountains, I can teach myself how to bike at 25, I can learn to swim at 17, and, yes, I can lose weight at 28.

Do I want to earn a billion dollars before I die? I don’t. Why the fuck will I need that? I’m gonna have fun with my monthly salary, my small side-income and my over-limit credit card.

At this rate, I am where I want to be. And bored.

Maybe I should sleep more so when I get bored of sleeping I can wake up and think walking around and doing daily tasks is not that boring.

Hmpft. Have a follow-up check up with the doc today and she’ll be reading x-ray scans of my nose. Got to go.

Pray for my nose, Papa P.