Yesterday, I found myself contemplating my life. Wouldn’t it be nice, I thought, to be fifty years younger again?  In my case, that would mean I’d be 34 years old.

Of course, there are details.  Chances are I wouldn’t make the same choices and have the same opportunities and experiences, and that would mean I wouldn’t have the same life, same spouse, same bank account.  I’d have to go through the same or similar experiences I did years ago all over again.  Would I wind up, 50 years from now, in the same place, or become the same person. Who knows?

Thank goodness this is a thought experiment, and not (as far as I know) reality.  I really like my life, and wouldn’t trade it for another, even if that included the “bonus” of living an extra half a century.  I think the possibility of me having a better life is unlikely. Consequently, the chance of having a different, longer life is not appealing.

It became popular in the 1970’s to “live in the moment.”  But that is something I’ve always done.

I have a friend I have seen regularly for more than forty years.  When we’ve been apart for more than a week or two she used to say, “I missed you.”  When I don’t respond with the proper words, such as “I missed you too” she used to feel rejected.  But when I live in the moment, I’m paying attention to where I am, who I’m with, and whatever it is I’m thinking or feeling at that time.  I seldom focus on someone who is not physically present.  (I admit that from time to time I’ll Google the name of a friend I’ve lost touch with over the years, basically to see where they are, and if they’re still alive.  I’m happy to report that most of them are.)

The passage of the days and hours is highly subjective.  Doesn’t it seem that when you’re enjoying yourself time passes quickly, and when you’re bored it slows to a crawl?  In that sense, my life has been rather short.

Thought experiment aside, I do my best to treasure each moment, even when it contains a lesson I’d rather not learn. Because in the bigger picture I wouldn’t have gotten where I am without all the choices I’ve made in the past.  And that certainly includes the mistakes.

So when an angel, or devil, appears and asks me if I’d like to be young again, my answer is:

“Thanks, but no thanks.  I really like the life I have.”

Alan

And I’m not talking about the cost of admission, but rather the emotional cost of parking.

The Hollywood Bowl is a 100-year-old Los Angeles cultural institution. It has hosted many renowned singers and bands over the years, notably including the Beatles (remember them?).  The Hollywood Bowl now seats 17,500 guests.  It’s located in a canyon near Hollywood Boulevard and Highland but offers only about 1,750 parking spaces on-site (this is my own estimate, which may be too high).  Even though their shows often sell out, they only have parking for about 20% of the audience (assuming two in a car).

For that reason, the Bowl provides “off-site” parking.  I live in the San Fernando Valley, so I can drive to the Eastern end of Ventura Boulevard, park in the large lot there, and take a 20-minute bus ride to the Bowl.  Last night I met my son at the venue to enjoy a performance that began at 6:00 pm.  By 9:00 pm we were both exhausted, and he had to be at work early the next day.  We walked to where he had parked his car at a private lot six blocks away. It’s a lot where the cars can easily leave at any time and are not blocked in by the hundreds of other cars parked around them.  He then drove out of his way to drop me at the Ventura Boulevard parking lot where I had parked my car earlier in the evening.

And there my adventure began.

First, I had to find my car in the dark.  I thought I knew where it was, but my car always seems to move around by itself after the sun goes down.

After ten minutes of searching, I finally found my car, but it was totally blocked in by other cars.  So I sat in the driver’s seat for one hour (thank goodness for the solitaire game on my cell phone), waiting until other drivers showed up to let themselves out, and release me from Hollywood Bowl Parking Prison.  I left the Bowl at 9:00 pm and finally got home after 11:30 pm.

One benefit from watching sports events and concerts on TV is that when the show is over you’re already home.  And a hamburger doesn’t cost $18.00.

Also – an added benefit – I don’t have to search for my car, then sit in the dark for an hour.

Grumble mumble.

Alan

On a Sunday morning many years ago, I was brushing my teeth in the bathroom when Scott, my teenage stepson, barged in.

“I don’t know if there’s anything wrong,” he said, “but the housekeeper just jumped into the swimming pool at the deep end, and now she’s at the bottom of the pool.”

It took me a few seconds to process that. Then, even though I was completely naked, I raced to the pool, dove in, and dragged the waterlogged woman to the side of the pool.

Meanwhile, Scott was on the phone with the 911 operator relaying instructions to my wife Susan on how to perform mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

A few minutes later the ambulance arrived to take her to the emergency room.  Fortunately, she was okay.

But talk about a shock. Evidently, the housekeeper had decided not to take the day off, and Susan had loaned her a swimsuit.  But the housekeeper did not know how to swim, and for some reason jumped into the deep end of the pool anyway.

Before this experience I always assumed that adults knew their limitations, although I flashed back to an experience I had as a kid when I was walking through our kitchen to the dining room, carrying an open umbrella.

“What are you doing?”  Mom asked.

“This is my parachute.  I’m going to jump off the balcony.”

My mother’s face turned ashen, and she grabbed my umbrella.  “No, you’re not.”  She was seldom that firm.  But seven-year-olds are not known for their mature judgment.  I’m sure Mom saved me from death or injury many times.

The lesson I learned from the swimming pool incident was this – never take good judgment for granted.  People are always capable of doing things that defy all logic. Even on a languid Sunday morning.

Alan