You Sass like you Breathe: And Now the Final Frame

Today's post is going to be a bit serious, so if you're not quite in the mood for it, I'd advise you skip this here blog for today.

After hearing about the tragedies in Oslo, and Amy Winehouse dying, I've gotten a bit introspective.

This year has a been a bit introspective overall, really, but these events brought a sort of new wave of it to the breakers of my mind.

When I learned that Amy Winehouse had died, I told my sister as she was straightening her hair to go to work. "Really? Amy Winehouse died?" she asked me. "Yeah, I think it's so sad," I said. Her reply? "It's sad, but it's not. She did it to herself."

I guess I don't really see how that makes it any less sad. She was a person. A living, breathing person. She had emotions and thoughts. She had flaws and troubles. She was an addict. And addiction isn't as simple as saying, "Hey, you! Don't you know drugs are bad? Stop doing them!" "Oh, you know what? You're right! I'll stop this instant!"

That's just not how it works. I read a really excellent article about Amy and addiction by Russell Brand (yep, I was surprised too). He says, "Addiction is a serious disease; it will end with jail, mental institutions or death [...] Whether this tragedy was preventable or not is now irrelevant. It is not preventable today. We have lost a beautiful and talented woman to this disease. Not all addicts have Amy's incredible talent. Or Kurt's or Jimi's or Janis's. Some people just get the affliction. All we can do is adapt the way we view this condition, not as a crime or a romantic affectation but as a disease that will kill."

I really enjoyed her music, and fell in love with her voice. And now she's a part of that famed "27 Club." And it is sad. Whether it's just one person, or many, as in Oslo. I can't even imagine the pain the people of Norway, and the victim's friends and families are feeling right now. I can't even bring myself to finish reading an article about it. Death is sad no matter the cause, no matter the number. I have not yet made peace with the fact that we all die, that we'll all have our last day here on earth. That there are no guarantees in life, save death.

My mother was reading the paper this weekend, and read aloud an obituary that was rather striking. A husband and wife passed away on the same day. One in the morning, and one that evening. As much as the song drives me batty (an ex used to play it, so of course it always reminds me of him), I couldn't help but think that "they followed each other into the dark." And, though I don't believe there is an afterlife, that maybe that isn't such a bad way to go.

I turned 24 in January, and have been a bit nervous this year. Anyone who knows me can probably tell you my mind often gets the better of me. I think too much, and it digs me in a bit of a mental hole at times. I can also be quite the nervous person, so all this can send me spinning, unfortunately.

A few years ago, two people I went to high school with, passed away at the age of 24. I wasn't really friends with either, though one I had always had a crush on, and who was a positive light in my freshman year, when I was having a rough time, and was being picked on by another junior boy. His passing especially effected me. Even writing this now, I'm tearing up a bit. One passed in January, and the other in December of the same year. It was an otherwise positive year, bookended with sadness.

As strange as it is to admit, I have been nervous because of this the whole year so far. In my neurotic mind, making it to 25 will mean I've some how made it. Like that will somehow exempt me from death until my old age. As if this is the climb to Everest, and 24 is the Khumbu Icefall, considered one of the most dangerous stages of the climb.

I know this to be ridiculous thinking. I really do. I reassure myself when the thought pops up. But I still have this general feeling I'm carrying around inside me that I just cannot wait to be 25, like that day will bring me relief. No one else I've known has passed away at this age before or since, so there hasn't been anything to reinforce my self-made superstition.

I know, in all honesty, that my last day could be at any time. 25. 27. 35. 77. Tomorrow. But my mind's latched onto this idea like a rabid pit bull, and just won't release it's grip.

I recently saw a photo slideshow on a website of fashionable septuagenarians. They each gave a little blurb about what it means to be fashionable, or how they've cultivated their style. They all generally said things I probably could've guessed, but one woman said something which has really stuck with me since. The echo of it resonates in my mind almost daily.

"'To age is a privilege."

And I couldn't agree more.

I can't say with certainty that I won't panic when I turn 30, like we are apparently supposed to do (if TV and movies are to be believed), but for now, I feel like some sort of magical perspective door has been opened, and I can view each passing year in a new light. How great it is to grow older! I hope I never take it for granted again.