Life’s too short.
It must be true. After all, I’ve read it on any number of t-shirts in catalogues: Life’s too short to drink cheap wine, beer, bourbon, or coffee; too short not to eat chocolate; too short, it turns out, even to wear ugly shoes.
I’ve heard it at work, too. A colleague fusses about something or someone and we say, You’re right. You shouldn’t have to put up with that. Life’s too short.
So it seems we’re generally agreed: Life’s too short.
As a sexagenerian, I certainly hear “time’s winged chariot hurrying near.” I’m not at the end of things, but I feel as if I can see it from where I’m standing. I still buy green bananas, but I may never buy another house. Not quite ready for the Lodge, I still expect that the next stop is likely a condo.
Not done travelling by a long shot, I know that I may not have time to circle back to some of my favourite places. Not ready to stop learning, I reluctantly acknowledge that mastering Spanish just isn’t going to happen. As for simultaneously improving my super-basic French, hah!
So, cheap wine aside, I get this business about life being too short. How then, is it also too long?
I’m not certifiably old yet, and still my lifetime of memories turns up some impressive numbers. Fifty-some years of wishing I could dance or play a musical instrument or speak another language really well. Forty-one years as a parent; thirty-eight years without a living grandparent; twenty-two years in a profession I fell into. (Help, I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up. Or out.) Fifty-five years of less-than-fond memories of dentists; twenty-one years of physiotherapists.
If I had understood ‘back when’ just how long it was going to be, would I have made different choices? Put in the effort early on Spanish? Spent more time with my grandmother when I still could? Been more intentional in my choice of work, a more patient parent, or a more responsible patient?
For the things I’ve done, to myself and to others; for the things I didn’t do, for myself or for others; for the things that just happened to me, life being life: for all of these, I’ve lived with the consequences for a long, long time. And there’s no end in immediate sight.
If life were only too short, it wouldn’t much matter what I did to, for, or with it. The problem is that life’s also too long.
Too long to be self-absorbed, or afraid to try things. Too long to take my family and friends for granted; too long to fail to turn acquaintances into friends. Too long not to floss or exercise regularly.
Yet life is also surely too long to wallow in regrets; too long to be miserable in my own skin; too long not to be better for seeing the beauty around me. Too long not to get the most from, and be grateful for, every bloody moment.
Too long, as it turns out, to get your entire philosophy from a t-shirt.