I’m not a sports fanatic. Couldn’t tell you who plays in the Super Bowl if my life depended on it. I don’t buy lottery cards or even have a lucky number. Yet suddenly I’m obsessed with numbers of a particular kind.
What kind? The age people die. It’s morbid, I know. I read obituaries and carefully note the age of the deceased.
If they’re younger than I, I’m sad and wonder about the cause of death. I murmur about the inexplicable mystery of why some people die young.
If the person is older, I count the years they outlived me and cheer their longevity. I read their obituary avidly for insights, hints and clues about how they made it to such a long life. Good for them! If they can do it, I “reason,” so can I!
But the deaths that completely seize my attention are the folks who pass at my exact age, 71. Yikes! Too close for comfort. Too personal. What happened? Did they have cancer? A heart attack? Those obits I read with laser focus, like a detective, seeking detailed forensic evidence about their demise.
This sudden numerical obsession is silly and ungracious. I hope it is — pardon the phrase — a passing phase.
It is only rivaled by a second, late-in-life obsession. I call it “Dead Musicians Mania.” Although not listed in the American Psychiatric Assn.’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, I suspect it is a common condition afflicting many almost-oldsters.
I describe it as both the prolonged mourning period that occurs when a beloved musician from one’s youth dies, and the pain felt each time his or her music plays. This sensation is greater than nostalgia. It is acute, deep and painful to the ear and heart.
It’s bad enough that the musicians we love, wrinkle and sag, but that they inevitably shed their mortal coil and leave us mourning them anew each time a favorite song plays . . . well, that’s just cruel. It’s worse than running into a hated boyfriend on a bad hair or “fat” day. It’s a non-stop playlist of our own mortality.
One day, I vow I will winnow through my music collection and weed out all the dead artists, but doing so will shrink my music collection by three-quarters!
I blame this, at least partially, on my parents, may they rest in peace. It was their love of old-time Broadway show tunes that drags my music collection to the Great Beyond, almost to the actual Great Depression!
Meanwhile, to prove that I am not a complete Debbie Downer and that life and the eternal Beat goes on, my musical tastes have evolved.
Aurally, I now listen to hip hop and rap.
Thanks to the students I work with at the local university journalism school, I’m decidedly au courant on the latest rappers. And those musicians are mercifully young and healthy. So, I’m on safe, non-mourning musical ground! (They’re also L.O.U.D., so my geriatric ears can hear the lyrics!)
Meanwhile, as to the appropriateness of my recent oddball behaviors, I try not to judge myself too harshly. I recognize them for what they are — a way of coping with fears about aging and death.
I recognize I should handle these inevitabilities with greater grace. I know I should thank Hashem for each day of good health, and equally that I should turn to religion (instead of rap) for comfort and solace. Yet, for the moment, I’m content(ish) embracing rhythm, rebellion and actuarial charts. Let’s hope it’s a phase, like being an awkward teen rock rebel!