I AM 31. That means that if I live to the average age of an American male, 78, I am just under 40% done with my life. At the outside, I’m a third of the way done. This all, of course, assumes that between now and 2064 (when I’d be turning 78), that there is no massive societal collapse, that we aren’t slow-cooked by the climate, that we don’t blow ourselves to hell with nuclear weapons. It also assumes that I’ll never step out in front of a bus or eat a particularly bad oyster or be cut down by a ruptured blood vessel in my brain. I could be 99.9% done with this messy business and have no idea whatsoever.
When I turned 20 (25% done), I decided that I was going to see as much of the planet as I possibly could. I had no mortgage and no kids. I didn’t mind sleeping on floors and couches. I didn’t mind eating ramen three meals a day. So, I traveled.
I burned out before hitting 21.