Chris Jepson: Life. Fun with a capital PH!

I’ve been told all my life that I don’t look my age. Or, that I look young for my age. Or, that I look good for my age. And, yes, more than a time or two, that I don’t act my age. I am writing this column on my 63rd birthday wondering how a man my age might comport himself?

I do not subscribe at all to the current hype that 60 is the new 40, or any other such age-related nonsense. Sixty is 60. I’ve a lot of photographs of my father and I imagine a lot of readers have the same experience I do when looking at pictures of their once-young parents: “Wow! They sure were pretty.” But I also look at photos of my father and invariably think, “He looks so mature.” He did. He was a serious man with a serious streak of whimsy. I’m more a whimsical man with a curious streak of serious.

Interestingly (to me only), I became cognizant at a relatively young age that we — none of us — get out alive. Any notion that I was immortal, well, I never had such illusions. Death became not a bosom companion through my days, but more of an accompanying shadow. A presence, a reality, the quiet guest, so to speak, always in the other room. I became aware, it became crystal clear that life is about moments and you damned well better be of the moment. I willingly describe myself as a short-term hedonist, yet I place a premium on long-term relationships. Ah, the best of all possible worlds.

I first began calculating my remaining years when I was around the age of 20 or 21. My grandfather died at age 83, my father at age 81. I split the difference determining that give or take months I would die around 82. And I am so OK with that. I came to grips years ago with my mortality, eventually got over the unfairness of it all (death of my all-to-brief consciousness) and in doing so was liberated.

I do not welcome death (I am much too alive!) but neither do I dread it. It is. I’ve concluded that five minutes too soon is preferable to five minutes too late. That when one dies is important. I’ve got the how covered (barbiturates and whiskey); it becomes merely a matter of timing. My goal is to exit on my terms, date (time) certain. I readily acknowledge the hubris associated with my “plan.” What is the adage? “There’s many a slip ‘twixt the cup and the lip.” But I want to die as I lived. With intent.

The question on the table is how does a man of my advancing years live? At this point in my life I do not have much choice in this regard. As the twig is bent so grows the tree. I will live as I have always lived. (We all do.) I will continue to reflect on the important, shed the nonessential and parteeeee like it’s 1999!

I’ve passed on my genetic “essence” to successive generations thus participating in the “purpose” of my species. Meaning of life? It is strictly an individual human construct. I find it in beauty and grace. In relationships, love and affection. In passion. Language. Art. In whimsy. In a raison d’être.

My father often spoke of fun. Big fun he spelled with a capital PH. Indeed.

Jepson is a 24-year resident of Florida. He’s fiscally conservative, socially liberal, likes art and embraces diversity of opinion. Reach him at [email protected]