For me, picking a “wished for” age for my life to end is an exercise in maturity. For instance, now at age 45, I can’t help but think, as objectively as possible, that dying around 65 would be ideal. That may seem too calculating but I have done a lot of thinking on the subject. Right now, I have three healthy sons and have been married for 15 years. Obviously, in twenty more years, I will have been married for 35 years. I’ve been fortunate enough to travel to some of the world’s most enchanting destinations (and plan to continue to do so) and to challenge myself in three diverse careers. I am a published writer and will be completing my Masters Degree within the next two years. In short, I have met many of the goals I have set for myself. Living for another twenty years will mean that my children will have the maturity to be able to process my passing as adults. I believe that, by that time, I will have experienced the joy of grandparenthood. Twenty more years gives me time to pursue a few more goals that may even be unknown to me at this point. But, that aside, and in keeping with this blog’s theme, I will have had the time to build a life which fills me with even more pride than I feel today. At the same time, dying at 65 may spare me some of the indignities that can be typical beyond that age.
As I’ve shared this mental exercise with friends, I have at times been met with unsettled stares. It doesn’t seem that I should need to remind anyone that this thought process will have no bearing on the actual year of my death. I may die at 65 or next week. The point really is again to drive home how delving into foreign terrains such as these can be uncomfortable but also an impetus to set goals and live your life in concert with them. If I don’t waste time over the next twenty years, there is no reason that dying at 65 should be seen by anyone as unfortunate.