Funny how you wake up one day and realize 22 years have slipped by like fog in the rearview. Back when I was staring down 43, my best friend and I made a run at getting our shit together—walking, eating better, meditation, the whole “let’s finally grow up” starter pack. And we gave it a decent shot. For a while.
But what hit me wasn’t the health kick—it was the years. The first 22, from ‘80 to 2002, were packed. We partied, lost our innocence, then found it again in our kids. Fell in love, fell apart. Those years were rich—enough story to fill volumes. But the next 22? From 2002 to now? I could sum it up in a pamphlet. How does that happen? How does time go from epic to empty without you even noticing?
Scientists have theories—something about how our brains process familiar routines versus new experiences, how perception of time changes as we age. But knowing the why doesn’t make the feeling less real. It doesn’t explain the strange emptiness of realizing most of your story happened in the first half.
My buddy and I both got older—greyer, softer, heavier. I’ve surrendered to it. He hasn’t. Still fighting time with hair dye and whatever else keeps the mirror from telling the truth.
We hadn’t seen each other in years, but one of us slipped and said, “Hey—we oughta get together.” You know how that goes—it hangs in the air, then dies politely. I figured it would again—until he called. Wanted to do breakfast on Saturday. My brain scrambled for excuses, but I didn’t need one. I got the flu and stayed sick for three weeks. He gave up. And I didn’t fight it.
But why? We’ve got decades of memories, laughs, losses to catch up on. Why do I avoid him—and everyone else?
Because that’s on me. I’m almost 64 and, truth be told, I feel like I haven’t done a damn thing with this life. Zero. Nada.
Sure, I did the marriage thing. Raised kids. Have grandkids now. But I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the shit you see in retirement commercials—the legacy-builders, the adventurers, the boat-owners comparing portfolios at sunset while their steaks “rest,” whatever the hell that means.
I missed the boat. The metaphorical one. Now I just sit around hoping whatever dope’s in office doesn’t mess with my monthly pittance.
So no—friends aren’t a comfort. They’re a mirror. And I’m not ready for what I see reflected back.
The sad thing is my friends are the least judgmental people I've ever known. Always forgiving and forgetting, and the door is never closed in case I shuffle by.
I, on the other hand, constantly come up short in the friend department. And honestly? I wouldn't have me for a friend.
These days, hope is basic. I hope the SSI hits. I hope my Medicare stays. I hope I don’t run out of food stamps.
Most mornings I sit by the window, coffee in hand, watching the street go quiet after rush hour. Sun on the sill. The silence thick enough to taste. The days ahead are fewer than the days behind.
Sometimes I think about texting my buddy. “Breakfast?” Just the word. Never do. Maybe that’s its own kind of hope—keeping the possibility alive by never testing it.
If I ever meet my Maker, I pray He goes easy on a man who fumbled the talents he was handed. I hope I get the New Testament God—the one who forgives rather than tallies up the score.
Until then, I’ll keep sitting by that window. Watching. Waiting. Still here.
