At 45, I’m slouching toward middle age. I sense doors on possible futures slamming shut with alarming regularity. I’m scared to make a bucket list, because I fear all I could muster for my list would be the following:
1] purchase bucket
2] place bucket on head
3] bang head until I forget all the things I’ll never get to do
The 18-year-old me would be shocked at the way he turned out. To be fair, the 18-year-old me had unrealistic expectations; it’s unlikely that I would ever have become co-lead singer of Roxy Music and Chief Justice of the International Criminal Court.
Nevertheless, to appease my former self I offer a shortlist of achievements that remain possible. For safety’s sake, I have included a more plausible alternative with each.
1] Play Che in a remake of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Evita.
SAFETY OPTION: Sing along to YouTube clips of “Let the Sunshine In” from Hair until my son storms off because he can’t hear his iPad.
2] Run a marathon.
SAFETY OPTION: Complete a weekend Orange is the New Black marathon.
3] Act humble when admirers marvel at my luscious head of hair.
SAFETY OPTION: Act like I don’t hear it when a lady at Safeway marvels at the length of one of my eyebrow hairs.
4] Curate a world-renowned collection of tasteful yet artistically daring nude photographs.
SAFETY OPTION: Catch a glimpse of sideboob on the Skytrain.