A few days ago, I made a discovery that I didn’t want to make. I found a website listing ages and the names of well-known people who died at each of them. Curiosity got the better of me, and I decided to see who else had died at my current age of whatever-it-is (I know the number, but I don’t want to put it down for posterity here).
My favorite author is George Orwell, and it turns out that he died at the same age that I am now. If I can make it to my next birthday, I’ll have outlived him, in the way that I already have with Elvis and Thoreau and Jimi Hendrix. Each of them lived a whole lot more than I have (and that’s why we remember them still), but in reducing life down to one number, I have them beat.
My next birthday is still four months away, and until it gets here I’ll think of George Orwell often. Here’s hoping I’ll get to leave him behind soon.
