When I woke up today, everything was still. It took me moment to come to and realize that today I’m 27. I’ve never been one to make big a deal out of birthdays; after spending last year’s at the height of COVID madness, my rule of thumb is that they’re just another day. It tends to inhibit any feeling of disappointment and nurture those of flattery when the birthday texts and a present or two roll in.
But what I do make a big deal out of is music. I’m a total nut for anything from classical to reggae metal. I’ll find some reason to listen to, and at least moderately like, pretty much anything. In rock in particular, the idea of the 27 Club—made up of those great musicians who died at 27—is hitting me hard. The list is plentiful: Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, Jimi Hendrix and Amy Winehouse, to name a few.
So what is it about two-seven? Is it a definite thing? Does the age demand an ultimatum, or perhaps, the consequences of indecision? My theory is somewhat simpler. Regardless of how well-known you are or how much money you have, life has certain checkpoints. And, for many, 27 is one of those. It’s an age where you begin to see things a little differently. You piss the carelessness of youth away and see the world beyond yourself. You recognize the value in running an errand for someone else, and the value in taking care of yourself so you can stick around to see the grandkids graduate. Or you don’t. If you can’t face it, maybe you burn out.
This past year has been tougher than usual for the obvious reasons, and for me it has given me, in a strange kind of unexpected way, space to think about mortality. My first brush with it was birth. I was born three months early, at two pounds. I escaped with only a mild form of cerebral palsy, one of the side effects of which can be premature aging. (Despite many Google searches over the years, I still feel as if I should know exactly what that means and looks like, yet here I am, staring perplexed at the words).
I suppose cerebral palsy is different for everyone who has it. But for me it means that I have to take care of myself: I have to eat right, exercise, and sleep enough, but not too much. If I’m having a bad day, I need to go easy on myself but also recognize that it’s not a longstanding excuse to not get things done.
Bad days are often a result of school, of class. If I’m studying a subject that requires cerebral activity that is, shall we say, stunted, I can get upset. But sometimes I power through, put my head down, not get distracted by the many side roads of self-destruction I could take, be honest with myself, and keep trying.