Often, when a friend asks how I’m doing, I have to stop and run an elaborate, self-orienting calculation: the day, the season, the year, and where am I?
Tuesday, nearly spring, 2024, New York. Then I usually say, I’m pretty good.
There’s an app on my phone that counts the days until something happens or since something happened. As I write this, I’ve been alive for 14,202 days. My oldest nephew is merely 2,301 days old. Other lifespans are being tallied, and approaching events are anticipated: travels, a wedding, and my life expectancy.
The life expectancy countdown is new. A banker trying to get me to save more heartily for retirement began a phone call recently by saying, “It’s 2078 and you’re 95. Here’s how much money you’ll have if—” and immediately, contrary to his intent, I cared nothing about the money.