A few months ago, I noticed my skin was starting to sport moles.
No, not THAT kind.
There you go.
I read that moles tend to happen in one’s thirties and thought little of it. Perhaps that “I’m Invincible” feeling was still lingering from my teens.
But as the year wore on, one particular mole kept staring up at me from my front right torso, as if to say “I’m important.”
Further research revealed that melanoma is not something to trifle with. It would seem that skin cancer is one of the most treatable cancers if caught early and one of the least treatable if not. I spoke to a couple fortuitously placed church friends and learned that investigating the mole via a “shave biopsy” carried a benefit-to-cost ratio too high to ignore.
Man. There’s a word I never wanted to be using in my thirties. Or, y’know, ever.
Every once in a while, on a pizza run, I’ll catch a glimpse of a future that worries me.
It’ll be some older male customer who’s living alone, in a tiny, isolated trailer way out on the edge of our delivery range, without a vehicle to his name. Some of these guys have a way of sharing a bit much about their lives, so I know they aren’t getting any visits from people. Just alone, filling their later years with television. Some of them by choice, some of them because of past choices.
I’ll just be real vulnerable for a second: that’s a future I’m afraid of.
I often worry about ending my life alone and broke, driving people away through advanced curmudgeonry. It sounds like overthinking, but my personality does tend that direction, and I worry about it a bit. I’m putting quite a bit of effort these days into avoiding that future.
Now, your typical response might be, don’t worry, Brandon. That won’t happen.
But maybe there’s an even better response.